Touching From a Distance
by VelocityGirl1980
Summary: Ruth and Harry have reached the zenith of their happiness; while Lucas finds himself on the opposite trajectory as his troubled past looms ever larger. Alternative Season 9. Now Complete.
1. Touching From a Distance

**Plot Summary:** This is an alternative version of Season 9, one that will have a much happier ending (I promise). I don't make a habit of revealing the end, but will in this case as I'm pretty sure mentioning season 9 anywhere in a summary will put people off! Anyway, Harry and Ruth have a wedding to plan; Ros has a life to save and Lucas has many threads of his own personal history to unravel. I've been planning this for months, to be honest. So I hope people enjoy it.

**Author's Note:** seeing as Ben was spared in my AU version of the Connie betrayal, I've sacrificed him in place of Ros at the end of Season 8 (the Nightingale business). Other than that, I've decided to keep hold of Jo. Season 9 didn't make much sense, even at its most lucid, but I've tried my best to make things a little better. Anyway, I hope people enjoy and reviews would be welcome, thank you.

* * *

**Chapter One: Touching From a Distance**

"We would go on as though nothing was wrong,

Touching from a distance, further all the time."

(Joy Division, "Transmission")

**Dakar, Senegal, 1995.**

"You scare the shit out of me, Vaughan."

The younger man laughed and stepped deeper into the shadows of the ill-lit apartment he had commandeered. An open window let in the heavy smell from the stagnant estuary waters, mercifully tempered by the blossom of the Mangrove trees. If he looked outside, he could still see the freshly dug grave in the moonlight. He had to admit, it was a nice spot for a final resting place; he would have picked it himself. As for John Bateman, he almost felt sorry for the poor bastard.

When he turned to Vaughan, the older man was looking back at him with that crooked smile on his face, the same mischievous glitter in his eye. It was all just a big game, to him. Admittedly, it was a game that paid well. After the job in Dakar the other day, his new bank balance was intimidatingly high. In the meantime, he had a suitcase containing one thousand dollars, all used banknotes to tide him over.

"You'll be pleased to know it's time to disappear then," said Vaughan. "Have you got everything you need?"

He checked his new bank cards and paperwork: visas, a new passport and a Driver's License all in the name of Dylan Hughes. "Yeah, thanks," he nodded. "Is Bateman out of the way?"

"Too shit scared to show his face in public," Vaughan replied, collecting his bag and shovel. He reeked of sweat from digging that pit outside, the younger man kept getting smacked in the face with wafts of it, mingled with the blossom from outside. "All the same, don't hang around. We're leaving in an hour. Don't contact me; I'll let you know when it's done."

He wasted no more time and collected his new identity. For now, it was all that he would need. Everything else could be bought whenever he got to where he was going to, where ever that may be. However, before he left, he turned back to Vaughan. Not for the first time, he felt a flicker of doubt about the final stages of the plan.

"Are you sure about Bateman?" he asked, brow furrowing. "I reckon he's losing it. How's he going to get on in MI5? That is, even if you do get him through the final interviews?"

Vaughan merely straightened his tie. "He thinks he's going to atone," he replied, amused. "I got it into his head that he'll be cleansed of involvement if he throws himself into all that Queen and country crap." As an afterthought, he added: "even if he does fuck up, he's completely deniable. Having someone inside MI5 is a bonus, not a necessity."

He could think of worse ways to do penance. He opened the door and prepared to say goodbye to Senegal. However, before he left for the final time, he glanced back at Vaughan over his shoulder and grinned.

"Like I said, Vaughan: you scare the shit out of me!"

* * *

**London, 2010**

A flotilla of small boats bobbed on the choppy waters of the Thames, a brisk wind sweeping upriver from the estuary. Ros took in the scene from the full length window of the restaurant, looking past her pallid reflection in the plate glass. She sipped at her wine and watched the decorative lights swaying in the darkness and the people strolling past, enjoying the chilly autumnal night. Before long, winter would be closing in, freezing the populace indoors and barring evenings like this one until the first signs of spring. Before turning back to Lucas, however, she briefly checked her own reflection. Not so much out of vanity, but more out of surprise. Over the last year, her hair had become more functional than styled. Now, it was swept up elegantly behind her head, long diamond earrings accentuated her slender neck and her figure was shown to full advantage in a sleek black dress that reached mid-thigh. She had almost forgotten that she could look like this.

Sitting opposite her, Lucas hadn't scrubbed up too badly either. His suit was tailored, black tie neatly knotted and shirt pressed to perfection. His hair had grown a little longer, but there was still nary a strand out of place, thanks to a liberal dose of Brylcreem. He finished the last of his meal before reaching for his wine, regarding her affectionately over the rim of the glass.

"That salmon was lovely," said Ros, raising a contented smile. "How was your steak?"

Every other blue moon, she and Lucas got to do this. A night where they could simply spend time together, free from work and the dazzling array of mind screwing complications that came with it. On these nights, they were like any other couple treating themselves to a meal in a nice restaurant. Since they last did this, Ben Kaplan had been killed and buried, Lucas had come within a gnat's arse of death on some hijacked boat off Somali waters and he'd brought back a beyond irritating creature he'd found on said ship: Beth Bailey.

"It was fine," he replied, nudging aside the decorative candles that formed the table centrepiece. "I was meant to tell you, earlier, about this apartment I saw advertised. It's by the river, close to work and within our price range. Want to arrange a viewing?"

They had known each other for two years now, and still hadn't made it past the stage of keeping a spare change of clothes and a toothbrush at each other's flats. It was time to move things to the next level and stop wasting time, as she had with Adam Carter.

"Definitely," she replied, draining her glass. ""Anything's better than shacking up in some derelict safe house."

"Speaking of which, I hear Beth Bailey's going to be homeless again soon," said Lucas, breaking the cardinal rule of no work talk.

"Oh, really," replied Ros, stiffly, bristling at the way Beth often came dangerously close to engaging in flirtation with Lucas. "Ruth wised up and thrown her out?"

Lucas raised a knowing smile. "It's just something I heard on the grapevine," he teased, before turning serious again. "I was thinking, seeing as we'll be moving in together soon, perhaps Beth could move into yours-"

"Stop!" she interjected, bringing her wine glass down hard on the table. "I don't care a fig about who takes over the lease after I'm gone. But she steps into that flat while I'm still there only over my dead body. She fancies you, you know. She'll poison me with her cheap peroxide just to get me out of the way."

"I can't help the effect I have on women!" He joked, then immediately recognised the grave error he'd made. Ros' lips compressed into a thin line, as she bit back the rebuke that could well cause a scene. Hastily, Lucas covered his tracks: "No, really that's fine. London is a city of many sofas and I'm sure there's one out there for Beth," he muttered, hurriedly. "I'll, er, settle the bill then."

While Lucas paid the bill, Ros dealt with the tip. Once their coats had been returned to them, they eagerly stepped out into the brisk London night. Arm in arm they took in the sights, even though they had seen it all before, and chatted away about everything except work. Before, that was, work bumped into them.

"Oh shit," Ros groaned, careful to keep her voice down, even though the intrusion was still some distance away. "It's them!"

"What?" asked Lucas, still unsure about what was Ros had spotted.

Ros pointed. "Look, over there by the barrier," she said. "Look who it is. I think they've bloody seen us now."

Lucas peered through the small crowds of pedestrians milling about the river walks and pavement cafes. It took a minute before recognition dawned in his expression and he groaned aloud. Quickly, he grabbed Ros' hand and pulled her closer to the wall, as though that might make them both invisible.

"You don't think they saw us, do you?" he asked, glaring out at the strangers passing by.

* * *

"They definitely saw us!"

Ruth protested as Harry firmly steered her away from the riverside walkway. Against his superior strength, she had no choice but to follow, flailing a handbag clutching hand out to keep her balance as she tottered along on her heels to keep up. Really, she had no more desire than Harry did to have colleagues interrupt their scant leisure time. But to openly bump into people, look them in the eye and simply run in the other direction was a bit much.

"I don't bloody well care, Ruth. I like Ros and Lucas, you know I do. But not tonight."

She looked back over her shoulder just as the crowds parted, briefly revealing Ros looking back at them both before being obscured up by pedestrians again. Already, she found herself rummaging for excuses to trot out for when she had to face them on the Grid in the morning. They're undercover; they had both been temporarily blinded and hadn't seen anyone; anything would do. Meanwhile, Harry was unrelenting and continued to steer her across the bridge towards a taxi rank.

"We're going on the London Eye," he declared, firmly. His demeanour brooked no argument.

"Oh! That's nice," she agreed breathlessly, but at least they were walking at a normal pace again.

They had planned on doing that, anyway. But they weren't booked for another half hour. Harry hailed a taxi and she gratefully climbed in next to him on the backseat, but she couldn't help but wonder at his strange mood. All night he had been taciturn and withdrawn, answering questions with one word, single syllable grunts. Something was clearly preying on his mind. Now, they lapsed into silence as the journey over to the London eye commenced. Even when they disembarked fifteen minutes later, they had still barely exchanged a word.

Thankfully, the London Eye itself would provide several talking points. She had been back in England for two years now, and hadn't yet had a chance to go on it. So, when they took their place and the pod closed behind them, Ruth breathed a sigh of relief. It was a clear night, affording them unimpeded panoramic views out across the whole city. An interweaving network of criss-crossing lights stretching out into the horizon. They could take in the illuminated beauty of the Tower, St Paul's, Parliament and Buckingham Palace as their ascent over London began.

"We got the perfect night for it," Harry remarked, finally having a stab at conversation.

Their earlier encounter with Ros and Lucas was all but forgotten.

"It's beautiful," she agreed, letting her gaze rest on the dark waters of the Thames far below them. "London always looks so different from up here."

His hand crept into hers, giving it a squeeze. When she turned to face him, he was looking back at her wide eyed and half-smiling. With his free hand, he fished about in the inside pocket of his jacket, but she could not see what he produced from it.

"Ruth," he said, turning to look out through glass walls of their private pod. "It looks like it's just you and me, now."

She smiled. "I guess it is," she agreed, shuffling over to sit closer to him. Harry responded by circling an arm around her waist.

"So, then," he said. "Marry me?"

The breath hitched in Ruth's throat and she didn't even think she had heard that correctly.

"What?" she asked, jerking to one side to look at him properly, to see if he was joking.

He opened a small jewellery box in the palm of his hand, revealing a delicate looking diamond ring. The small gems winked in the reflected light of the London skies. It was a simple and elegant item, its understatement a thing of beauty in itself.

"Will you, Ruth, consent to be my wife?" he asked, more fully.

For a long moment, she couldn't say anything. Her eyes welled up, making her vision swim and she was so taken aback she could barely wring any sense from herself. But, she managed a nod and a smile that reached from ear to ear.

"So, that's a yes then?" he asked, brow creasing as he implored some clarification.

"Harry!" she gasped, her voice about an octave higher than usual. "For God's sake; yes!"

It seemed to take a moment for Ruth's assent to register. Then, he drew her into a tight embrace, just as the London Eye reached its zenith. They kissed each other against the backdrop of the whole city, a position they held for the rest of their journey back to earth.

* * *

Lucas rolled his eyes as Ros kept up her stream of verbose complaint against Harry and Ruth. It didn't matter that they were as keen as their colleagues to avoid each other, it was the principal of the matter. "I just wasn't expecting the roadrunner impressions," she continued. "I quick 'hello' wouldn't have hurt any of us."

He kept his silence as they strolled on, their route unbroken by the panicked appearance of Ruth and Harry accidentally sprinting back into their path. It had still been a more than pleasant evening for both of them and he hoped the same for Harry and Ruth – whatever they were up to. However, their evening had reached a premature end as Ros was called away to collect some files from work.

"Just give me two hours to get everything sorted," she said. "Then meet me back at my flat. Will you be okay?"

"Sure," he replied. "I'll head off for a drink or something. I'll see you soon. Just don't go leaving important stuff at work in future," he laughed.

"Good, because I have a treat for you when you get there," she promised, teasingly.

It was unlike her to be forgetful. But, he thought nothing more of it as they leaned in to kiss each other before he walked off towards the nearest watering hole. However, as he drew level with the pub, he veered off across the road again. The night was too fine to spend sitting all alone in some horrible bar. Also, he was being followed and had been for some time. It was for that reason he'd made an excuse not to go with Ros to collect her things from work.

Spotting a swarm of tourists nearby, he mingled with them for a while, pretending to be interested in the nearby streets and landmarks while he got his bearings. After a few minutes of that, he moved on and crossed the same bridge that Harry and Ruth had crossed barely an hour before. However hard it was, he had to resist the temptation to look over his shoulder to see if he was still being tailed. He took another detour down a narrow street and out onto a wider avenue before trying to hail a taxi.

When that failed, he set off again down the street towards the crowds. He tried to keep his pace normal, not too hurried and not so slow that he could be easily caught up. Finally, he allowed himself a quick glance over his shoulder to see if anyone looked suspicious. After a brief pause to decide on his next move, he swung down a flight of steps leading to a subway to cross London. But, three steps down, his tail had come up to meet him and was now looking him square in the eye. Recognition hit Lucas like a kick in the gut.

"Hello, John."

Lucas didn't think it possible, at first. He tried to back away, but he already knew it was too late. If Vaughan Edwards had tracked him down after all these years, he wasn't going to give up and go away just because he made it clear that he was not welcome. The years hadn't been kind to him, either. His hair was thinning; he had filled out a little and his clothes looked like they had been salvaged from a charity shop reject skip. Lucas felt his jaw drop as he tried to marshal his thoughts into a verbal reply, but his mouth ran dry and his stomach churned violently.

"Aren't you pleased to see me?" asked Vaughan, still a few steps down from Lucas.

He had a brief inclination to push the bastard as hard as he could down the steep, concrete steps and hope for the best. But, if the bastard lived he would be in over his head. For now, Lucas decided to try and appease him to get shot of him as soon as possible.

"Wh-what do you want?" he stammered.

Vaughan stepped into the light, revealing his full cadaverous self. The years really had been rough and, unless Lucas was mistaken, it looked as if he'd even suffered some sort of stroke. He dragged one leg as he moved, the corner of his mouth was downturned. But it didn't affect his eye. He fixed Lucas squarely with both.

"Nothing," he replied, acting the innocent. "I just wanted to give you this."

Lucas noticed the suitcase Vaughan was carrying for the first time and eyed it with disgust. He had no intention of accepting it, but those intentions failed to translate into actions as he found the case being thrust into his arms. Vaughan's hands brushing past his own made his flesh crawl.

"What we did," he said, looking Lucas up and down, "has been the making of you. But it's been the destruction of me. You're looking well, though."

Fishing for sympathy, but Lucas refused to bite. He merely watched, with revulsion etched on his face, as the other man dragged himself away. Vaughan mounted the final steps and then turn back around to look down at him. "See you around then, John."

Fifteen years ago, he had been a naïve fool. But that was then and he knew well this suitcase would not be the end of it. But whatever it was Vaughan wanted, he wouldn't be getting it. Fifteen years ago, he had nothing to lose. Bat again, that was then.


	2. The Girl from Fifteen Years Ago

**Author's Note: **Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your feedback means a lot. I own none of this. Thanks again for reading, and reviews would be most welcome.

* * *

**Chapter Two: The Girl from Fifteen Years Ago**

"**The laughs from the late night lock in are fading away when he gets in,**

**And the girl from fifteen years ago, has left and gone away."**

**(The Levellers – "Fifteen Years")**

Sleepless and alone in the sitting room, Lucas closed his blinds against the oncoming dawn. The television was off and the silence was almost absolute, but for the occasional passing car outside. He double checked the locks on the doors, making sure that the chain was in place at the front. Then the windows are unlocked and locked again, just to be sure. Satisfied that he was secure, he returned once more to the sitting room, where the suitcase sat unopened on the table. He pulled it towards him, his hands poised over the steel clasps and froze again.

His mobile had chimed into life from where it lay on a nearby sideboard. He knew it was Ros, wondering where he'd got to the night before. But he hadn't answered all those other times she called, and he couldn't bring himself to do it now. He waited until it fell silent again and switched it off. The clock on the mantelpiece read seven am; he'd been home since midnight and not yet slept. He couldn't. The suitcase was a monkey on his back, scratching at him to the point of utter distraction.

He took a deep breath and snapped the clasps open. The smell from inside was musty, like it had been left in the damp; dirt adhered to the hinges and made them stiff. From first glance, he could see that there were several items inside. Old casino chips. A VHS video tape, the likes of which no one had owned since 1999. Mostly, it was old photographs. He picked some up at random, turning them over to see properly. All the while, he felt numb and bewildered as faces from the past revealed themselves, invoking memories he thought were long dead and buried. Eight of the fifteen years since these pictures were taken had been spent festering in a Russian prison cell, and those memories had almost rendered these ones obsolete. As though he'd got an upgrade in hell.

One image stood out vividly, despite being partially obscured by two others. He reached for it and studied the young girl's face. A photo taken at a house party while they were both at Leeds University, the memory rearing up from the depths of history. He traced his index finger gently over Maya Lahan's image, letting the long buried past stir inside him; a lingering affection for the girl in the picture reigniting. They had loved each other, once. They swore they would spend the rest of their lives together. Then, Dakar…

A sudden knock at the door startled him into dropping Maya's picture. He turned sharply towards the door just as the knocking came again, more forceful the second time. His heartbeat raced, hammering painfully against his ribs. Lucas slowly, silently pushed back his chair and got to his feet as he edged over to the sitting room door, just as a metallic flap of the letter box being pushed open sounded from the empty hallway. If Vaughan had followed him home-

"Lucas!"

It was Ros. He breathed a sigh of relief, but made no move to answer her call. She would be angry and snappy over his failure to turn up at her flat last night, and he couldn't deal with her attitude now. Not with everything else going on. He couldn't think what to tell her and needed time to clear his head.

"Lucas, are you in there? Answer me!"

Silence followed. Then, a minute later her heels clicked against the paving stones that led round to the back of the house. She tried the door handle first and, finding it locked, went further round the back to look through the windows. He eased himself down behind the sofa, just in case he hadn't shut the back blinds properly. He listened to her footsteps proceeding to the front windows before giving up altogether. Seconds later and something dropped through his letterbox before he heard her car engine revving in the distance.

The note on the doormat simply read: "Where are you?" A question he could no longer answer in all honesty.

* * *

Ruth batted Harry's hand away as it snaked up the hem of her skirt just as the telephone on her desk rang. It was almost eight thirty and the others would be arriving at any minute. He looked gratifyingly pained as she pressed the receiver to her ear. To ward off any further possible advances, she stood up as she addressed the caller. A mistake, as it happened. Harry got up too and grabbed her from behind in a tight clinch.

"Is that you, Ruth?"

Ruth frowned reprovingly as she gave Harry a sharp jab in the ribs with her elbow, making him snort with laughter.

"Hi, Lucas," she replied, trying to keep her tone straight. "Everything alright?"

"Actually, no, it isn't," he replied, just as Harry planted a firm kiss on Ruth's neck. "I've been puking up all night. I think it might be food poisoning."

"Oh, you poor thing," she replied, shooting Harry a severe frown before swatting playfully at his leg. "You'll not be in today, then?"

"No. Sorry to have let you down," he replied.

"Oh, not at all," replied Ruth, giving in to Harry as he squeezed her round the middle. "As long as that's all it is."

There was a brief silence at the other end.

"What do you mean?" he asked, sounding snappy.

"It's just, the last time I called in sick it was actually because I was tied and trussed up in this guy's hallway with a gun to my head," Ruth explained hurriedly, starting to worry in case she had inadvertently sounded like she was doubting him. "God knows what would have happened if Danny Hunter hadn't put two and two together."

"Honestly Ruth, I'm just sick," he laughed. "I'll be back tomorrow, in one piece."

They bid each other farewell and Ruth replaced the receiver before turning to Harry, wagging an admonitory finger. He flushed with the effort of stifling his laughter. "You're a very bad man, Harry Pearce," she scolded, grinning from ear to ear all the same. "That was Lucas, by the way. He's been vomiting all night."

"Excuses, excuses!" Harry sighed, lowering himself back into Ruth's seat. "We have a perfectly serviceable toilet here-"

"Harry!" she cut him off and landed another swat on his thigh. "Food poisoning is serious … in fact…" her words broke off as her expression set in determination. "Yes, I have an idea."

Harry was looking back at her, growing increasingly worried. "Oh no, Ruth," he began. "Not the chicken soup. A bad stomach is one thing; salmonella is quite another."

"Oi!" she retorted, aghast at his slight on her cooking. Then she composed herself as she went through the practicalities. "I haven't time to make it myself, anyway. But what does it matter if I just heat up a tub of Marks and Sparks finest and stick it in a flask? It's as good as homemade. Ros can take it round later."

Now it was Harry's turn to look disapproving. "I'm seeing a whole new side to you, Ruth," he said, still trying not to laugh. "Such duplicity!"

They had a few more minutes alone before the rest of the team would begin to arrive. A few more minutes in which to pull themselves together and prepare themselves for the daily battle ahead. Harry straightened his tie while letting his gaze rest, for a moment, on the engagement ring that glittered suggestively on Ruth's finger. It still felt like a dream for them both. A dream that took substance as Jo arrived on the Grid and, with the eyesight of a hawk espying its prey, spotted it straightaway to an immediate squeal of delight. Finally, it began to feel real: the wedding is on.

* * *

Ros cursed under her breath as she realised her attempts to rouse Lucas had made her late for work. But, he hadn't showed up at her flat the night before, as arranged, and he hadn't answered any of her calls. The last time she tried phoning him, he had switched off his mobile, so he must have known she was trying to reach him. Something wasn't right and the only thing soothing her worries was the small prospect that Lucas hadn't responded this morning because he was already on the Grid. Anything could happen in their job, and it usually did.

As soon as she passed through the pods she scanned the room for any sign of Lucas. Tariq was there; Jo and Beth Bailey were sitting either side of Ruth, chatting animatedly about something and Harry was alone in his office. A few other agents she knew only by sight were milling about, lost in papers or obscured by computer screens with no sign of Lucas anywhere.

"Ruth, can you come with me a minute?" asked Ros as she strode past her colleagues.

She tried not to look at Beth Bailey and, in the effort, blanked Jo as collateral damage. However, Ruth was following her as she led the way out of the back of the Grid and into the passageway that led to the paper archive, affording them both some privacy.

"What time did you get home last night?"

Ros didn't mean to round on Ruth in such a way, but her worries for Lucas were blossoming now that she knew he wasn't at work. For a moment, Ruth just looked back at her as she whirled through the calculations – like all Analysts, she was being annoyingly precise about it all.

"It must have been coming on for midnight," she finally answered. "Certainly no later."

"And was Beth there when you got home?"

Ruth's brow knotted into a frown. "Yes, she was in her night things and just going up to bed when I came through the door," she answered.

Ros relaxed, breathing a sigh of relief as let the tension in her shoulders drain away. She had been foolish to even think that Lucas had blown her out for the flirtatious Beth Bailey. If he was going to cheat, he'd a damn site more subtle than that, anyway. But with harmless explanations for his absence ruled out, it still left her on edge.

"Oh, I was wondering if you could bring some soup round to Lucas' later," Ruth said, casually. "That is if you'll be going to see him."

"What?" asked Ros, "have you spoken to him?"

"He called in about twenty minutes ago," explained Ruth. "Food poisoning. Up all night being sick."

With that revelation, Ros had the urge to kick herself. She raised a rather timorous smile and nodded. "Thanks, Ruth, I think Lucas would appreciate it," she replied, not quite sure of the truth of that.

If he'd been throwing up so much that he couldn't reply to just one of her calls, then she reasoned that his situation must be beyond the chicken soup stage. She let the subject drop and allowed Ruth get back to her day. However, she smiled as she remembered hers and Harry's roadrunner act, the night before.

"In a hurry last night, were we?" she asked.

At least Ruth had the decency to blush. However, when she held up her hand it all became clear. "Harry needed to ask me something," she replied. "He didn't mean to be rude."

Although the sight of the ring made her feel inexplicably despondent, Ros still managed a small smile. "You took your bloody time," she remarked drily, before returning to the hubbub of the Grid.

* * *

Lucas hadn't meant to do it. He hadn't meant to log in to the Grid's virtual network and type the name 'Maya Lahan' into the database search engine. Now her face, almost unchanged by the ravages of time, looked out at him from the screen and his heartbeat began to race. Her workplace was given as the Royal Bloomsbury Hospital, central London. Threat potential: none. Marital status: single.

There were no goodbyes between them. He didn't even realise he was leaving her until he was already long gone and, since that day, she was the unfinished business that slept at the back of his mind. She was the loose thread, left hanging in his life. Dakar had destroyed everything between them. He looked again at the address of her workplace and committed it to memory, before slapping down the lid of his laptop. His hands were trembling; heart rate still going through the roof and he knew he wasn't thinking straight.

Suddenly restless, he got up and paced the length of his sitting room. Snatching his keys up from where they lay in a fruit bowl, he made for the front door to get some air. He needed the space to breathe and think, away from the walls that seemed to be slowly closing in on him. Once outside, he breathed deeply at the cool air, sucking in the petrol fumes and the odour of uncollected rubbish from the nearby bins. Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the solid wood door, catching his breath before deciding on his next move.

"Have you opened that suitcase?"

Lucas snapped back at attention, gulping against a wave of nausea. Despite the desperate hope that he'd simply imagined the voice of Vaughan Edwards, when he opened his eyes, the man was leaning against his gate post, as casual as he liked.

"How did you know where I live?" Lucas demanded, furtively glancing up and down the street in case anyone saw them. "What are you doing here?"

Unsurprisingly, Vaughan made no attempt to answer the question. Uninvited, he walked the short length of the garden path, to where Lucas still leaned against the door. Lucas had to tilt his head back to keep Vaughan in focus as he drew level with him.

"Why so hostile, John?" he asked, one corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. "I only came to see how you were."

Vaughan was shabbily dressed again, but still smelled of expensive cologne. It hit the back of Lucas' throat whenever he caught a whiff of it on the breeze, adding to the burning in his stomach this meeting had already afforded him. To put some distance between himself and his old 'friend', Lucas turned to unlock the door, getting them both inside before anyone could see them loitering on the doorstep.

Once back inside, Lucas paused at the bottom of the stairs, unwilling to allow Vaughan any unnecessary access to his inner sanctum.

"I said, what do you want from me?" Lucas repeated, his brow clenched in a tight frown.

Reacting against Lucas' disgust, Vaughn hunched his shoulders, back stooped as he came to rest just beyond the door. "All I want," he replied. "Is to get out of your life, for good. But I need your help, John."

The use of his old name made Lucas' flesh crawl. To avoid having to look at Vaughn, Lucas began walking the length of the hall, into the kitchen round the back of the house.

"And I already told you," Lucas hissed back at him. "Whatever you want, I'm not helping you to get it."

Vaughn followed him into the kitchen, always one step behind him. "You do this for me, you'll never see me again. I promise."

Lucas ran an agitated hand through his hair, trying to keep Vaughan out of his line of vision as though that alone would make him disappear. But among the swirling thoughts that crowded his mind, an internal debate broke out. Just one thing to make Vaughan disappear again couldn't be so hard? But if he did it, there would be nothing to stop Vaughan rolling back into his life the minute things got rough again. One argument wrestled the other until the doorbell rang, making both Lucas and Vaughan whirl round to face the door down the narrow hallway. They both fell silent as the doorbell buzzed, quickly followed by a sharp rap against the door.

"Lucas!"

It was Ros again. Vaughan turned to Lucas, the lopsided grin back in place, making Lucas' stomach lurch.

"Is this the blonde I saw you with last night?" he whispered. "Does she know yet? Does she know who you are and what you did? I could bring her inside and tell her all about you!"

"Shut the fuck up!" Lucas hissed, ready to reach for a knife. "Just shut up."

He managed to shut the kitchen door just as Ros flipped open the letterbox. All the while, Vaughan fixed him in a hard stare, silently daring him to let Ros in while he was there.

"Lucas, I know you're in there," Ros called through the letterbox. "Ruth sent some soup round. Come and get it."

"Oh, now that sounds nice," Vaughan remarked. "You're not going to leave a lady hanging around the doorstep, are you?" Let's bring her in."

He made for the door, but Lucas reached out and blocked his exit. "You leave her out of this," he warned, keeping his voice low.

Vaughan's eyes glittered as he came right up to Lucas, reaching around him so one hand was on the handle of the kitchen door. "You help me with this, and I'll leave her out of this," he bargained. "I might even leave Maya out of it, so long as you play ball, John."

Ros was knocking again, making Lucas' heart palpitate with every beat on the door. "If I do this thing for you," he whispered. "You walk away and I never see you again."

"You have my word," Vaughan answered.

Lucas bit back a nervous laugh. "Like that counts for anything!"

Outside, Ros finally gave up on him. However, as her footsteps receded down the path his mobile chirruped from inside his pocket. Vaughan had snatched it out of there with a dexterity that left Lucas speechless as he tried to wrest it back, unsuccessfully.

"Ros, is it?" he asked, showing the caller display to Lucas. "Is that the blonde at the door?"

Unable to contain his anger, Lucas grabbed on to Vaughan's wrist, squeezing as hard as he could until the phone fell silent at their feet. Vaughan's countenance barely flickered, and Lucas knew that was because he was now precisely where the bastard wanted him to be. Lucas loosened his grip slowly, catching his breath. "Don't push me," Lucas warned, raising his voice now that Ros had left.

"Albany," said Vaughan. "I need Albany. Get that to me, I'll leave you forever. We'll never see each other again."

Albany meant nothing to Lucas; he'd honestly never heard of it. However, he gave a small nod of assent. Whatever it was, it would be a small price to pay for getting Vaughan off his back, once and for all.


	3. Nothing and No One

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your comments are greatly appreciated. The usual disclaimers apply, I own none of this. Thanks again for reading, and reviews would be welcome.

* * *

**Chapter Three: Nothing and No One**

"Do not listen to a word I say,

Just listen to what I keep silent"

(Manic Street Preachers, "This is Yesterday")

"Aren't you going to answer that?" asked Ros, stealing a sidelong glance at Lucas. That was the third time he'd hung up on whoever was calling his mobile, something that was increasingly becoming a bad habit of his. However, she soon turned her attention back to the building they were supposed to be watching over. Somewhere, deep inside that featureless sixties concrete block, something was happening and they needed to know what it was. Beneath the leaden skies, the view was even grimmer.

"It's no one," Lucas flatly replied.

He'd been agitated for most of the morning and Ros had put it down to the lingering effects of illness. But, the longer it went on, the more concerned she became. 'No one' clearly had an important message for him, one that he clearly wasn't too keen to receive. Every time she looked at him, his restless gaze was anywhere but on the office block in front of them, where it was believed a dodgy deal was currently being pulled off by the head of an oil company.

They remained in their car, out of the drizzle and away from the sodden crowds of office workers milling about in the early afternoon rush. Between fits of forced conversation, Ros regarded him closely. After a day of ignoring her phone calls and personal visits, he had jumped into her car early this morning as though none of it had happened at all. He was dressed in a tailored, pin-striped suit. Clean shaven and not a hair out of place. But none of it hid how exhausted he looked, nor disguised the dark circles under his eyes; livid against his otherwise waxen skin. Nothing stilled the tremble in his hands, or the tremor in his voice when he spoke. She was trying her best to rationalise it as the residual effects of the food poisoning and was debating whether or not to simply take him home and send him to bed. But she knew his agitation would permit him no rest. Giving up on eliciting any further attempts at conversation, Ros turned a half-seeing eye back to the office block.

"Ros," he finally said. "Could you ever forgive your father for what he did?"

Inwardly, she bristled at the mere mention of her father's name. It was a subject just about everyone knew about, but no one ever mentioned. Not if they knew what was best for them, at any rate. She turned sharply to look at Lucas, who was still focusing on something in the middle distance. The question had taken her by surprise, so much so her usual acerbic replies had been stifled.

"No," she replied, bluntly. "What's done is done, any idiot can regret what's already happened. He made his decisions."

Finally, Lucas turned to look at her and the expression in his tired eyes gave her another unwelcome shock. A hollow eyed, silent plea? She couldn't be sure from just that one, fleeting glimpse before he dropped his gaze again. He turned away from her to look out of the passenger window, where a group of office girls tottered past with their anoraks pulled over their heads, protecting their over-styled hair from the persistent rain.

"But what if his contrition was absolute?" he asked, the tremor in his voice more pronounced. "Can there really be no redemption?"

Ros didn't answer straight away. Her expression darkened as she continued to look at the back of his head. She sensed herself being danced around a verbal pinhead, while he was asking about one thing, but meaning something else altogether. "What is this really about?" she asked.

A muscle in his jaw jumped as he swallowed. "Nothing," he replied at length. "I was just curious."

Nothing. The same 'nothing' as the 'no one' who kept ringing his mobile, or so she was beginning to suspect.

"Lucas," she spoke softly, words that never came easily to her. "I know I've never told you before, but I want to live with you because I'm in love with you. If there's a problem-"

"There isn't," he cut her off. "I'm tired, Ros. My stomach still hurts and I…" his sentence broke off as he turned to face her again. "I think I just need to get back to the Grid. I can't do this today."

Ros offered no argument and turned the key in the ignition. She waited for a break in the traffic before pulling out into the main road and heading off towards Thames House. Silence once again descended between them while Lucas slipped further into the distance, and Ros kept her fears to herself.

* * *

Alone in his office, Harry pondered William Towers. The new Home Secretary exuded an air of easy going charm, behind which he hid an agile and pragmatic mind. As he delved deeper into these private musings, he concluded that Towers was a politician he could finally do business with. A rare beast, indeed. At a stretch, he would even go so far as to admit that he liked the man. But, it was still early days in their relationship and once, a long time ago, he'd dared to hope the same of Nicholas Blake.

Before he could grow maudlin, Harry's reverie was broken by the premature reappearance of Ros and Lucas on the Grid. Expecting an early update on the oil meeting, he frowned as Lucas marched straight past his office and over to his regular work terminal. From there, he proceeded to blank Jo while exchanging a few words with Ruth before switching his computer on.

"Harry."

Ros' voice gave him a jolt. He hadn't noticed her hovering in his doorway.

"Come in, Ros," he bid her. "Close the door."

Once she was settled in the chair, she crossed her legs and looked at him evenly across the desk. Her expression neutral; trying to sound casual. "We need to talk about Lucas," she said.

Harry put away the paperwork he had been countersigning before his musings on the new Home Sec had carried him off.

"I can see he's still pale-"

"It's more than that," she interjected, betraying her worry with her haste. She then paused, correcting the small slip in her composure before continuing: "Yesterday, he ignored all my calls. He ignored me again when I visited in the afternoon, but I could hear voices coming from inside. He had someone else in there with him. I left the flask of soup on his doorstep, and it was still there when I picked him up this morning. Today, he starts asking questions about my father and practically walks off the job. He's distant and withdrawn, and he's been ignoring calls from someone else."

As he listened, Harry ran a hand through his thinning hair as he weighed it all up carefully. First things first, he reached for the obvious and the logical.

"The voices you heard inside his house," he began his counter arguments. "Could he have fallen asleep in front of the television?"

Ros bit her lower lip, casting her gaze downwards. "It didn't sound like that, Harry."

"How certain are you?" he asked, directly.

"I can't rule it out," she admitted. "But the whole food poisoning story doesn't ring true, either. He had steak; he said it was fine, he was fine. He missed a meeting with me arranged two hours before it set in and that's when he started ignoring me. We had a lovely evening, there was no fall out and no harsh words that could have precipitated it. It's out of character."

A snapshot of a memory flashed across Harry's mind. A conversation held two years ago, when Ruth first returned from Cyprus, when he had told her there was 'something' about Lucas he could never define. However, his gut feeling was to err on the side of caution. He shifted his gaze from Ros, out on to the Grid, where Lucas' seat now stood empty, pushed away from his desk. Briefly, Ruth met his gaze, but he did not return her smile. He made a mental note to speak with her again, once everyone else had left for the day.

"For now, leave it with me," he said. "But watch over him, like you always do. If anything else happens, call me straight away, regardless of time."

Ros gave a curt nod before leaving the office. Harry watched her walk back across the Grid, towards Ruth to give her the good news about the morning's aborted mission. Despite his half-remembered conversation with Ruth, two years ago, he had grown to trust Lucas implicitly. If he had landed in some trouble, there would be a way around it; he just had to think of the most discreet way of circumventing it.

* * *

Access denied. The words flashed up on the screen as soon Lucas attempted to run a search for Albany. He suppressed the curse on the tip of his tongue and immediately logged out of the database before anyone else could notice him at the terminal. After walking a few steps away from the computer, he stopped dead in his tracks and went back again. Briefly, he considered asking Ros for clearance but immediately dismissed the idea. She would ask questions; questions that could potentially lead her into his mess.

He thought about coming clean with her and telling her everything. The same for Harry and Ruth, as well as all the others who had become his friends and colleagues. He had the words framed perfectly in his mind: what he would say and how he would say it. Then, he would try to second guess their reactions. Ros' cold and unforgiving fury; Harry's bitter disappointment and Ruth's sweet incomprehension. He would have to relive the shame of his deceit, expose himself as a fraud and lay himself bare to the scorn of the people who were like family to him. Every time he tried to steel himself to the task, he felt his emotions tail spinning.

Overwhelmed by the thoughts crowding his head, Lucas shouldered his way into the nearby Gents. Finding them mercifully empty, he splashed a handful of cold water on his face to revive himself, to bring himself back to earth. While he dried his face on the rough, recycled paper towels, he studied his refection in the mirror. To his mild surprise, he still recognised himself. Once he'd straightened his tie, he made his way back out again, passing one of the seniors from Section C as he went.

"Can you give me clearance?" he asked, the words leaving his mouth before he had even engaged his brain.

The man paused, without much of a hesitation he agreed. He double backed on himself, towards the computer terminals and typed in his username and password.

"There you go, mate," he said, walking away without a backward glance.

Lucas drew a deep breath and ran the search for Albany again. This time, something flashed up on the screen. He narrowed his eyes, studying the image carefully before slotting a pen drive into the computer and downloading the relevant files. It only looked like a painting, but it was clearly top secret. To make it look like an attempted theft, he set up a transfer of funds to divert £24,000 pounds into the account holder's bank. Once he had Albany downloaded on to his pen drive, he ejected it and wiped down the screen after logging out again.

The whole sordid act made him sick to his stomach. A cold sweat had broken on his brow as it sunk in there was no going back, now. He didn't know what he'd done and that somehow made it more palatable. Just like the old days, ask no questions and wash your conscience clean with a bucket load of wilful ignorance. He stalked down the corridor as soon as he was ready, rounding a corner and almost colliding with Ruth as he did so; muttering a hasty apology as he went.

* * *

The triage nurse's notes were sparse to say the least. Male; mid-thirties; suspected food poisoning; name: Liam Daniels. His blood tests were normal and no urine sample was taken. Doctor Lahan sighed and braced herself for another tidal wave of vomit and, if she was really lucky, the simultaneous diarrhoea that often accompanied it. Clutching her clipboard notes like a defensive shield, she firmly yanked back the curtain round the bed.

"So, what have we got here, then?" she asked, beaming brightly at her next patient.

He had his back to her. A tall, slim-built man who already was starting to look familiar. He turned round slowly, his expression pained, but not because he'd had the shits all night. In fact, he was the picture of health. Especially healthy, for a man she thought had been dead for fifteen years. The clipboard began to slip from her hands as she stepped closer to him, her smile dying as her expression hardened as she took in his appearance. She looked into those clear blue eyes and gently touched the zip line on his dark jacket, as though checking to see if he was real; almost surprised when she found him to be solid.

"Maya," he whispered her name in a voice that was hoarse, but so familiar to her.

A flood of memories washed over her; everything they had been to each other, everything they once shared. Then, just as quick, a flash of hot anger at the way he'd dropped out of her life without so much as a by-your-leave. Before she even had a chance to get her head straight, she'd lashed out and struck him hard across the cheek. He absorbed the blow and remained on his feet, when all along she wanted to knock the head off his shoulders.

"I thought you were dead," she hissed at him, already confused over why she doesn't simply walk away.

"I need to explain-"

"What?" she demanded. "What could you possibly have to say to me that you couldn't have said in the last fifteen years?"

He foundered; jaw dropping open as he tried to explain but no sound came from him.

"Something happened in Africa," he finally managed to speak. "Something so terrible that I couldn't risk bringing it back to your door. Hear me out, Maya. Meet me after work?"

She took a deep, cleansing breath to calm herself down.

"John, it's been fifteen years. I've moved on and I suspect you have, too," she replied, studying his expression closely. Did he really think she'd been waiting for him? She didn't want to tell him about Michael, it was early days for him and her, but he'd swept into her life and charmed her from the off. The last thing she wanted now was for an ancient ex from the last century turning up and throwing a spanner in the works. "If you really are sick, I'll ask my colleague to take a look at you. If you're only here for me; go home and stay there. Goodbye, John."

Even though she turned right away, she couldn't help herself making a mental note of the time and place he named as a meeting point. She couldn't help but be curious as to where the hell he'd been all these years. Besides, she reasoned as she glanced back over her shoulder, he was still undeniably handsome.

* * *

Lucas slammed the car door shut, but stalled on starting the engine. Despite the fact that his meeting with Maya had gone as he suspected it would, he needed a minute to compose himself before taking charge of a vehicle. Because, the meeting may have gone as he suspected, the outcome of it was something else entirely. He had meant to exorcise her ghost, to expunge himself of this lingering history before dealing with Vaughan once and for all. After that, he was meant to return to work, return to Ros, and never be troubled by his own history again. That was theory; in practise he found himself being sucked deeper in to something he already knew he would soon lose what little control he had over.

He felt as though he was being taught a lesson: that he could never be free of his past. In an hour at most, he would have Vaughan off his back. But Vaughan was a mere symptom, the cause was Dakar and nothing, and no one, could ever expunge that from the records.

* * *

Ruth listened to the speaker on the phone with rapt attention. She couldn't say she had ever heard of Stephen Owen before, but after a few clicks through her database his image flashed up on her screen. The call ended and she hung up the phone, regretting that she couldn't be any more help to her Section C counterpart, even with her connections in GCHQ. It was all there before her on the screen: an attempted transfer of twenty-four thousand pounds and one snatched download of a state secret.

"How odd," she whispered, addressing no one in particular.

"What's odd?"

She spun round to see Jo hovering over her, a quizzical look in her eyes.

"Oh, nothing much," she shrugged. "Someone in Section C has been arrested for attempted theft and breach of the Official Secrets Act. Stephen Owens, did you know him?"

Jo's expression clouded as she drew a blank, before returning to her own work.

Not even Harry had ever mentioned Albany to her before, so Ruth returned to her computer and ran a quick search. When nothing came up, she ran a search for people who'd logged into the system and also used the term 'Albany' as a keyword. If it was something top secret, she was fairly sure that others would also try to access it. But, while she waited for her search results, she glanced across the Grid, where Harry sat alone and unoccupied in his office. She hoped he was making the most of his down time, because the only other person who'd used 'Albany' as a search term, beside Stephen Owen, was Lucas North.

* * *

Lucas North, who at that moment had just stepped into a quiet pub, not far from the Bloomsbury Hospital. He bypassed the bar and glanced over the faces at the tables. Mostly, it was the flat cap brigade, splashing their pension money on a pint that would last them the whole evening. The only thing missing from this most quintessentially British scene were the Greyhounds. But amongst their ranks, jutting out like a sore thumb and seated near the empty hearth, was Vaughan Edwards.

Swallowing the bile that had just hit the back of his throat, Lucas walked over to where his blackmailer sat and nursed a drink. Without a word, Lucas dropped the pen drive on the table. Vaughan looked first at it, then turned up to him. "You've done what I asked then?"

"It's on there," Lucas replied, ready to walk away.

"How did you get it?" asked Vaughan.

Lucas stopped again, glancing back at Vaughan over his shoulder. "That's none of your business," he acidly retorted. "I've kept my end of the bargain, now you see to yours. I want you out of my life."

Before Lucas could go any further, Vaughan had climbed to his feet. He stood there, fixing Lucas with a look, loaded with disdain. "I made you," he reminded Lucas. "You need to remember that, John. With just one word to Harry Pearce, I could destroy you."

Lucas paled. The truth of Vaughan's words only adding to the force of their impact; enough to knock the wind out of his lungs. He grimaced, but quickly straightened himself out again. Whatever else he was losing at this moment, he still had a shred of pride to hang on to.

"Just you try it," he warned, turning back to look at Vaughan, "and I will drag you right down with me."

With that, Lucas finally turned and walked away. Whatever he'd done, it was too late to go back on it now.


	4. Seventeen Voices

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your comments mean a lot. I own none of this – especially not Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, from which I have quoted the opening line as part of the story. Thanks again for reading and reviews would be very welcome.

* * *

**Chapter Four: Seventeen Voices**

"**Pull me out of the air crash, pull me out of the lake,**

**I'm your superhero; we are standing on the edge."**

**(Radiohead, "Lucky")**

Lucas leaned against the barrier of the bandstand and looked out over the park; watching while the day faded to black as night fell. It was cold. So much so his breath clouded and glittered in the glare of the decorative lights wound round the arches of the bandstand. Unable to see much away from the bright city streetlamps, he found himself inwardly delving as deep as he dared into his own thoughts. There were a hundred places he should be, besides where he was: home, work, with Ros… He could no longer think of Ros without feeling as though he had a poisoned vine twisting round his heart, slowly choking him. If she knew the truth about him, she would not want him in her life. She wouldn't want him anywhere near her. No one would.

He tried to tell himself that eight years in prison, enduring day after day of torture and humiliation was the price he paid for what he did, for his deception. But, he also knew it wasn't up to him to decide what his ultimate punishment should be. As such, it all rang just a little hollow. Seventeen voices still echoed in his head. Seventeen voices, all demanded justice. Seventeen souls, still haunted every move he made. Everything he had done, everything he had made himself out to be, was done so on the basis of a colossal lie; a lie that even he himself could no longer begin to fathom.

To stop his own descent into pointless recrimination, he checked his watch and surmised that Maya really had moved on. Huddling deeper into his jacket, he was about to step down from the bandstand when the echoing sound of high heels striking the paving stones reached him. It drew nearer, and Maya appeared moments later, wrapped in a black coat, swaddled in a scarf.

For a minute, they both looked at each other in silence. Now that she was here, he didn't know what to think, or even how to feel.

"I didn't think you'd come," he said, breaking the silence.

"Neither did I," she replied.

He ventured a step towards her, but she responded by taking a step back, as though he might jump her at any minute. She was wary of him, and he could understand why.

"What do you want, John?" she asked, sounding maddeningly sympathetic.

What did he want? He couldn't even articulate that any more.

"To say I'm sorry," he finally answered. "To say that I never meant for any of this to happen."

Maya raised a sad smile. "Now you've said it, will that be all?"

After being forced to confront his own past, there was really only one good thing about it: her. Vaughan's reappearance had taught him one thing: that he cannot go on living a lie indefinitely. The two facts combined left him with two stark options: cut and run from them all, or second, try to salvage even just one thing from his past that had made his life worth living. Ros and MI5 were already all but gone. Maya was all he had left. He wanted to say he loved her and that he always had, but it would be just one more lie on the ever growing pile. But she was a link to something in the past that could make him human, once more.

"I thought about you often-"

"John, stop!" she cut over him. "You've got to stop this, now. I have a life; friends; a boyfriend."

"Then why are you here?" he demanded, suddenly angry as though she were the one leading him on.

The anger in Maya's own expression softened into one of pity as she continued to look up at him.

"Because I needed to know what happened," she replied. "You just walked away and I lay awake, night after night, worried sick about you. When that useless, deadbeat druggie, Paul Seward came back without you and said he didn't know where you were, I thought you were dead somewhere."

Lucas shook his head slowly, suppressing an ironic smile. If only he could tell her, that if he had actually stuck by that 'useless, deadbeat druggie', he would be in a lot less trouble now than he was back then. In growing desperation, Lucas stepped down from under the bandstand; Maya was now too worked up to even pretend to be afraid of him.

"Isn't it enough to know I'm still alive?" he asked.

Maya almost laughed, but stopped herself just in time.

"Until the next time things get rough," she hotly retorted, "and you go running off in the middle of the night again. You've burnt your bridges, John. A long time ago."

She looked Lucas up and down, taking in his appearance for one final time, before walking away. He followed her, calling out her name, but Maya carried on walking out of his life leaving nothing but the lingering scent of her expensive perfume on the air, not once looking back at him. Before he could make himself look like a stalking prat, Lucas got a grip on himself and jogged the short distance back to the bandstand for a small breather, and to gather the frayed ends of his nerves. However, no sooner had he collapsed to the floor, his mobile began to ring. Unthinkingly, he pressed the green button to take the call.

"Hel-"

"It's fake, John," Vaughan snapped at him from the other end. "The Albany file you gave me is fake-"

"Then I can't help you!" Lucas shot back, feeling his pulse begin to race.

Vaughan laughed, slow and menacing, down the line at him.

"Oh, I think you can," he said, still sounding endlessly amused at Lucas' expense. "I think you know full well who has it. The name Malcolm Wynne Jones mean anything to you?"

"No!" Lucas firmly cut in. "Just no."

The mere thought of harm coming to Malcolm, one of the kindest souls on the Grid, made him feel nauseas.

"Fine, then I'll go to Harry Pearce."

"Vaughan!" Lucas shouted out, but the line had already gone dead. "Vaughan!"

Plunged once more into silence and stillness, Lucas' mind reeled and spun like a child's top. Unconsciously, his hand travelled to his throat as a memory played out in his mind. Once, he put a noose around his neck and let one foot step off the chair he was standing on. Then, he remembered that he didn't deserve to die. Death was too easy, for a man like him.

* * *

Harry hung up the phone and dropped his head into his hands. Everyone who needed to be informed of Albany's compromise now had been. Even some junior officers, including Jo Portman, had been sent round to Malcolm's to assist with the removal of his elderly mother from their home. It was an awful lot of bother to go through for something that wasn't even real. But, the cold facts remain: Albany is a state secret, but one that gave them a lot of leverage over some nasty, hostile nations.

On his desk, a sheet paper bore the names of those agents who had used 'Albany' as a search term. Harry lifted his head and glanced at it again. Stephen Owen and Lucas North. He didn't want it to be true. He didn't want to have to entertain the notion that Lucas was turning rogue on them. But it was there in black and white. Owen was being questioned by the police, so there was the promise of more yet to come. He knew he had to act, but he felt so weary of it all.

"Harry."

Ruth rapped gently on his open door. Behind her, Ros hovered behind her, looking wan and worried.

"Come in, both of you," he said, gesturing to the chairs before his desk. "Ros, close the door behind you."

Once they were all closed in and settled again, they each looked to the other to start. Ros looked sick to the stomach; Ruth shuffled her papers for the third time and Harry was still reluctant to even face up to what was happening.

"There is a small possibility that this is coincidental," Harry said, trying to be reasonable.

"I've just heard back from the Police," said Ros, her tone flat and subdued. "Owen said he gave his clearance password to a man from Section D, fitting Lucas' description, this afternoon. He denies accessing Albany; he denies the theft."

"Well of course he denies-"

"Harry!" Ruth interjected. "We need to deal with this, head on."

Taken aback by the abruptness of her tone, Harry glanced across the table at her and bit back his irritation.

"Ruth's right," Ros said, breaking the tense silence. "Lucas is a hair's breadth away from betraying his country and we need to know why."

Under the circumstances, Ros was eerily calm. But she was staring into the middle distance as she spoke, keeping her feelings locked inside. Like he himself, Harry feared that Ros was another who was quickly getting used to betrayal. But the way she dug her nails into her wrists, scratching at the skin and leaving track marks livid against the pale flesh, betrayed her agitation and anger. It was all simmering below the surface. For what it was worth to any of them, Harry agreed with Ruth, too.

"For now, we need to be cautious," he said. "On a personal level, I think we're all a little too deeply involved in this case-"

"I never let personal feelings cloud my judgement," Ros tersely cut him off again, anger marring her taut features even further. "Christ, Harry! You of all people-"

"Stop fighting!"

This time, it was Ruth cutting in on proceedings. Her pale blue eyes darted furtively from Harry to Ros and back again, silently pleading for calm. When the other two took a metaphorical backwards step, Ruth continued, trying to think of the best solution for them all.

"Before we do anything hasty," she said, casting a sharp look at Ros. "I propose to bring in some outside help. Harry is right, we're too close to this."

"Who?" asked Ros, barely concealing her contempt for the idea.

"I'm sure Harry has a contact or two we can use," Ruth answered. "We need to keep everything normal and calm while Lucas is here. We can't be running background checks and surveillance while he's actually hanging around the Grid; he would panic."

Ros looked disgusted. "So we go snooping around behind his back?"

"You've never done that before, have you Ros?" Ruth shot back, forgetting her earlier plea for peace and unity by harking back to Cotterdam. "Now, where were we?"

Following Ruth's reference to Cotterdam, Harry watched Ros carefully. She looked as though she wanted to strangle Ruth, but was just about managing to keep herself in check. More than anything, he needed Ros to stay in control even if it meant ignoring the odd slight on Ruth.

"That was uncalled for," Ros lamely replied, but clearly chastened. "I just don't like this idea. A stranger digging about in Lucas' activities. There must be another way."

Then an idea hit Harry like a ray of morning sunshine.

"It won't be a stranger," he said, looking between them both. "Quite the opposite, as it happens."

Both Ruth and Ros dropped their sudden animosity and looked back at him, expectantly. "Who?" they asked, in unison.

* * *

Finally, it was time to put the children to bed. The living room looked like a bomb had hit it; the kitchen tiles were still caked in the remains of dinner that they had deemed inedible and toys were scattered across the rug in front of the gas fire. Perilous Lego bricks, lethal to the bare foot were scattered like domestic landmines, concealed in the thick pile of the carpet. It was a home like millions of others, up and down the country. And, just like millions of other parents up and down the country, the hour brought a sigh of relief to the lips of frazzled mummies and daddies, slowly being pushed to their wits ends.

But, it was also that sacred hour when the whole family of four piled into the nursery for the nightly bedtime story. That peaceful, winding down at the end of another frantic day. Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, open on the father's knee as the children snuggled close. The wife looked on from the side lines, smiling widely as she waited for the new story to begin. They'd both been anticipating getting their two kids into this series, especially their eldest, a boy called Danny.

"Mr and Mrs Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much," he began reading, after lovingly folding back the frontispiece. Normality: that was what he had achieved after seven years out of MI5 and he was also very proud of that, thank you very much. Although, he rather hoped he made a better father than the ones in this story.

The story continued, the interruptions from the children growing less frequent as they became immersed in a whole new world of childhood and magic. And also, because they were finally falling asleep, to the relief of both parents before the illusion was shattered by the ringing of his mobile phone. The children snapped wide awake again and the wife rolled her eyes.

He tried to look apologetic as he answered the call.

"Hello, Tom Quinn speaking."

His wife, Christine Dale, looked over at him expectantly as her husband's eyes widened in surprise.

"Harry!" he exclaimed.

"Is that Harry Potter, Daddy?" asked the youngest, the girl, Daisy. When she was first born, they wanted to call her Harley, just for a laugh. Then they realised their daughter's sanity meant more to them than a Batman joke. The pet name, however, had stuck fast.

"Something like that, Harley sweetheart," he replied, planting a firm kiss on her head before jumping up from the bed he'd been sat on to take the call outside.

"God, Harry, I thought I'd never hear from you again!" he said, once he'd made it to the hallway. Christine had followed him out, and was leaning against his shoulder, listening in and alight with puzzled excitement. "What's happening?"

"You remember the man who recruited you, Lucas North?" asked Harry.

Tom frowned. "Of course. He was, er, misplaced in Moscow, if I remember rightly? Is there an extraction on the cards?"

He had to admit, the prospect excited him and normality be damned. Alas, it was not to be.

"We got him back two years ago," Harry said, filling him in. "But, we have another developing problem and we, Lucas and I, need your help. Are you willing to consider it?"

His decommissioning from MI5 had been sudden, unexpected (to him personally, at any rate) and painful. But, looking back from across the span of seven years, he's man enough to admit that he would have decommissioned himself, had he been in Harry's position. The pain and shame had dulled, and he would only view a return to MI5 – no matter how temporary – as a chance to make amends.

"I don't need to consider it, Harry. Tell me where and when, and I'll be there."

Harry replied with a definite smile in his voice. "Thank you, Tom. But I need to come to you, for this one. We're being discreet."

"I'll be in the Office from eight thirty," Tom replied. "Is Lucas coming with you?"

"Ah, no. It's him you're investigating," Harry admitted. "I can't speak on the phone. But myself, Ruth Evershed and Ros Myers, my Section Chief, will be in to see you first thing."

"Okay, Harry. See you tomorrow, then."

The call ended and, for a long moment, Tom and Christine looked to each other in silence. Both shocked and surprised by the sudden, out of the blue, emergence of Harry Pearce in their midst. But, once a Spook always a Spook. No one ever really could leave the past behind them.

* * *

That night, Lucas lay awake in bed and stared at the ceiling. He mapped every crack in the paintwork; traced every kink in the finish. Every time he closed his eyes, he found himself back in Dakar, a film reel of events playing over and over – a ghostly masquerade teasing him slowly over the edge of an abyss. The voices cried for justice; the memories back to kick him in the bollocks just like a Russian prison guard. A cycle of mental torture that could happen anywhere, prison cell or no. His phone lay silent on the sideboard, even Ros had given up calling him, now. They knew. If they didn't know everything, they'd know enough and he felt himself slipping further down a spiral.

At the same time, Stephen Owen was in an interrogation room. On the table, in front of him, were several pictures of different men. All dark haired; all blue eyed and pale skinned. He studied each one carefully. There were no names on them. Just blank, staring faces. He pointed to one somewhere, roughly, in the centre.

"This one," he said to the interrogator. "That's the man who asked for my access codes."

The interrogator nodded and took the picture outside, to where another man, Harry Pearce, was waiting with growing impatience. He handed the picture over: "He says it's this one," he explained. The look on Harry's face told him all he needed to know. He took the picture back with trembling hands and walked away in silence. A woman, introduced to the interrogator as 'Rachel' waited for him at the end of the long, darkening corridor. When he reached her, she folded him into a warm embrace.

* * *

**It will start to get better for Lucas soon, I promise!**


	5. Control

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your feedback means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply: I own nothing.

* * *

**Chapter Five: Control**

**"And she gave away the secrets of her past,**  
** And said I've lost control again,"**

**(She's Lost Control - Joy Division)**

Most independent outfits consisted of a battered filing cabinet rescued from a skip; an obsolete computer on a desk with uneven legs crammed into an office the size of a shoebox with broken blinds guarding the windows. But Tom Quinn's get up was spacious, clean and airy. A potted rubber plant dominated the corner of Tom's private office; he had framed photographs on his desk showing two young children, the male toddler just about keeping hold of the female infant, alongside another of Tom and Christine on their wedding day, the train of her gown spilling down stone steps like a frilly, taffeta waterfall. Harry smiled as Ruth's gaze lingered over it, a small ray of happiness to lighten their sombre business. Tea and biscuits were served by a soft-footed Receptionist while Harry, Ruth and Ros took their turns in bringing Tom up to speed on the situation with Lucas.

"The Albany File has been moved and Agents are guarding the homes of those who know of it," Harry explained. "I've left nothing to chance."

"One of them is Malcolm Wynn-Jones," Ros added, addressing Tom directly. "If Lucas turns up at any of the locations in question, he'll be arrested on the spot."

Tom sat opposite the three of them, behind a large, highly polished desk. He looked thoughtful as they all lapsed into a brief silence. Eventually, he lifted his gaze to meet Harry's, and fixed him with a furrowed look.

"So, what is Albany?" he asked. "Why would Lucas even want it so badly? What is motivating him to seek it?"

"It's a blueprint for a genetic bomb," replied Harry, without hesitation. It was a state secret, but the cat was out of the bag a long time ago. "It was supposed to target one ethnicity, depending on how you coded it."

Ros glanced sidelong at him, one eyebrow raised scepticism. "A bomb that picks its own victims?" she asked, low voice heavy with contempt.

Across the desk, Tom's expression matched Ros' cynical tone. "Really?" he asked.

"It never worked," Harry quickly pointed out. "We kept it as a deterrent-"

"You mean, rogue nations actually believe it exists?" Ruth asked, lifting her gaze to meet Harry's. "And Lucas is throwing his life and career away on a bit sci-fi fantasy dreamt up by some Techie Geek who'd seen too many episodes of Star Trek?"

On Harry's other side, Ros had buried her face in her hands. If he didn't know her any better, he would say that she was hiding her emotions. So rare were the occasions that Ros showed vulnerability, Harry found himself wanting to reach out to her, or draw her well away from the situation. But the fact that one of their Senior Case Officers was teetering on the brink of treason for the sake of a pretend weapon only urged him onwards.

"This only proves we need to act fast before Lucas does anything stupid," Tom put in, as though he'd read Harry's thoughts. "What do we have so far?"

Ruth's expression brightened. "We do have more," she replied, reaching into her handbag and handing Tom a print out. "I had Tariq trawl through Lucas' web history and he found out Lucas had accessed a file on Dr Maya Lahan on the same day he called in sick at the Grid. There is absolutely no logical reason at all why Lucas would access this woman's file. Her threat level is none-existent. She has no connections to anyone who does have a threat level and she's just a plain, unassuming Doctor and law abiding citizen."

Tom took the printout and studied it carefully. Maya Lahan's face peered out in black and white, her details listed to the right of the paper. He had thought he was dealing with another Peter Salter, but Dr Lahan had nothing. She was just a woman. An ordinary civilian with nothing spectacular beside an impressive career.

"Has anyone searched his house?"

"Not yet," Ros replied. "I have a spare key, so I'll take a look around later. Tariq's studying the CCTV at the end of Lucas' street. As soon as he leaves the house, I'll be going in."

Suddenly reminded of the fact, she checked her wrist watch. It was nine-thirty am and Lucas should have left, already. Even with outside help from Tom and Christine, keeping Lucas in their line of vision was proving tricky.

"Well, I propose that Christine and I speak to Dr Lahan as soon as we're done here and we'll get back to you," Tom proposed, eliciting a sigh of relief from Ros. "Ros, I'd like us to meet with you and Harry as soon as you're done at Lucas' house. Ruth, you can get to work as soon as we have new information for you."

"In the meantime," Harry said. "I would like to keep Lucas at a discreet distance, just while we're doing these preliminary investigations. I suggest sending him out on a minor mission with Beth Bailey, unless anyone objects."

Harry's suggestion was followed by a moment's pause in which they nodded and murmured reluctant agreement. Now that the investigation had begun, they could finally start proactively pursing the truth, rather waste their time in idle, frustrating speculation. Because, no matter which way any of them looked at it, Lucas had simply stopped making sense.

* * *

Somewhere, in an unacknowledged part of his mind, Lucas half believed that he wanted to be caught. He wanted for it all to be out in the open, but the process of getting it there seemed an insurmountable obstacle. He entered Thames House, almost an hour late and paused before the pods, trying to marshal his thoughts in to some semblance of coherence. When he confronted Harry, he wanted the explanation ready and organised. In practise, however, the more he grasped at the truth, the more elusive it seemed to become. The closer he got to the Grid, the more he felt himself going into free fall.

Just as he was about step forwards through the pods, his mobile phone began ringing shrilly from inside the pocket of his jacket. He jumped back and almost dropped the phone in his haste answer. Vaughan's number, unrecognised but familiar to him, flashed up on the screen. Lucas looked at it for a second, feeling his resolve to simply hit the 'ignore' button weaken.

"What do you want?" Lucas demanded, answering the call regardless.

"I think you know what I want," Vaughan's familiar drawl responded.

A smile twitched at the corners of Lucas' mouth as his resolve strengthened. "Well, you're not getting it," he replied with more confidence than he felt. "I'm in to see Harry now; I'm telling him everything."

Before Vaughan could even register what he had said, Lucas hung up the call and switched the phone off. But as soon as the words left his mouth, an all too familiar uncertainty began to prey on him. No matter how much he wanted out from under Vaughan's spell, he didn't have the words; he didn't even know where to begin and anticipating people's reactions make the bile rise in his throat. Then, he stepped out onto the Grid and found it almost empty. Steeled for the moment, in the moment, his resolve melted away again as he took in the empty workstations and Harry's locked, darkened office.

"Where is everyone?" he asked Beth, the only person visible on the Grid.

She looked up from her station. "Oh, Harry called," she told him. "He wants us to check up on a few of Ben Kaplan's old Assets, make sure they're okay and they know who their new handlers are."

Lucas' expression darkened, heartbeat racing. "I can't," he replied, waspishly. "I need to talk to Harry. Now."

There was no way of making her understand without giving himself away. He moved to his terminal, where Tariq came into view as he fired off a text message to someone. He barely looked up at Lucas, never mind picked up on his silent plea to get Harry, now. If he didn't come clean now, he knew he never would. He would lose his nerve; if it hadn't already deserted him. The wait would break him.

Beth was on her feet, speaking soothingly. "Harry and the others will be back when we're done, Lucas," she said, holding her hand out to him. "Whatever you've got to say can wait until then-"

"No!" he cut her off. "Call Harry now and tell him it's urgent."

Tariq stepped into Lucas' line of vision, blocking his view of Beth.

"Harry, Ruth and Ros are in a meeting with the Home Secretary, Lucas," he explained. "We can't interrupt."

After a long pause, during which the remaining vestiges of Lucas' resolve evaporated, he dumbly repeated his request. "I need Harry," he said, as though rephrasing the request would make a difference.

Beth stepped around Tariq and shrugged her coat on.

"Come on, Lucas," she said, walking towards him. He could see her approaching him as if he would detonate at any minute. "It won't take long and you can talk to Harry when we get back," she added, keeping her tone even and calm. "Use the time to think about what you want to say."

It was then that he became convinced that they were lying. His suspicions were confirmed. They knew already. He tried to speak, but the words choked him, sticking in his throat. Forcing a nod, he followed Beth meekly off the Grid and back the way he came. As he left through the pods, he looked back over his shoulder, taking in the whole of the Grid, eerie in its silence.

"It won't take long," Beth chattered away, keeping up a stream of inanities as though she were distracting a toddler. Lucas let it all wash over him as he followed her to the car, parked outside Thames House. She paused by the driver's side and fished about for the keys, pulling them out amidst a trail of fluff and loose threads from her pocket. Lucas acted fast as soon as the keys were produced, elbowing her sharply in the ribs and catching the keys as she dropped them.

Unlocking the door, he shoved her out of the way and jumped in the driver's seat before Beth could react. She was still fast, though. Beth recovered within a second and launched herself at the car before he could even start the engine. She slapped at the windows with the flats of her hands, calling his name at the top of her voice. The doors were locked, and in a panic, Lucas struggled to fit the key. But as soon as he did, he pulled out into the road, barely checking the on-coming traffic as he sped out into the road. Other drivers blared their car horns at him as he swerved outwards, muffled shouts and curses were bellowed from hastily lowered windows. But, as Lucas glanced in the rear view mirror, all he could see was Beth running frantically down the road, still calling out to him.

* * *

Bloomsbury Hospital loomed into view as Christine brought the car into the driveway, slowing to snail's pace as she took the speed bumps. Tom leaned forwards in his seat, lifting his gaze so he could see the upper-most windows of the aging building. An unwarranted memory from his MI5 days reared up in his mind: a doctor he once dated, by the name of Vicky. He shuddered at the prospect of bumping into her here. It wouldn't surprise him to find her lurking behind one of the ambulances, ready to spring a trap on him, all these years later.

Beside him, in the driver's seat, Christine grinned. "You wouldn't be thinking of another Doctor, by any chance?" she asked, teasingly.

"Oh, don't," he replied, deadpan. "Just don't even go there."

Five minutes later, and they were waiting in a busy reception area for Dr Lahan, trying to keep out of the way of the patients. The noise made further discussion inadvisable, so Tom took to studying the public information posters warning of flu, super-bugs and cross contamination. Enough to make anyone paranoid. Meanwhile, Christine perched herself on one of the plastic seats, specially designed for maximum discomfort. Finally, after a wait of twenty minutes, Tom noticed the receptionist pointing them out to the Doctor in the picture Harry had shown to them that morning. He touched Christine's elbow, signalling that Maya had arrived.

"Can I help you?" asked Maya, looking from Tom to Christine.

"Do you have somewhere we can talk in private?" Christine asked, once they had introduced themselves. Not being MI5 or CIA anymore gave them the bonus of being allowed to use their real names when dealing with members of the public.

Maya's expression darkened into a concerned frown. "Of course, follow me," she replied, leading them through reception.

Through a set of double doors, Maya brought them to a private consultation room and drew the curtain closed for privacy. Tom handed her a photograph of Lucas.

"Has this man, Lucas North, tried to make contact with you?"

Maya raised a brow. "I don't know anyone called Lucas North," she answered, taking the picture and looking at it. Immediately, her expression changed completely and raised a wan smile. "You mean John Bateman," she corrected them.

"His real name's Lucas North and we need to speak with him," Christine pointed out, gently.

Maya snapped her head up to look at them both directly. "I've known John since we were at University together," she said. "He's always been John. Well, at least that's what his Dad called him. He should know. John was here the other day, actually. It was like seeing a ghost. I thought he was dead."

Maya's gaze lingered over Lucas' image as she continued to speak, completely unaware of the shocked look Tom and Christine exchanged. Suddenly, she realised that they had fallen suspiciously silent and turned to look at them, puzzled. "Is John in trouble?" she asked, changing tack mid-flow.

Tom took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a minute, while he reined in his swirling thoughts. After a second, he decided to start again.

"You went to university with this man, so you met when you were what? Eighteen or nineteen?" he asked.

Maya nodded. "First year, we were eighteen. We were going to be married by third year."

Christine gasped and looked up at her husband in wide-eyed bewilderment. Tom, however, kept his focus exclusively on Maya.

"And you knew him as John Bateman?" he asked again, realising how silly he sounded, but he needed everything completely straight in his head.

Maya nodded again. "I knew and loved him for years. He introduced me to his father, who was a Minister with the Methodist Church and a lovely man. He died from a stroke. And yes, John is John. I have never heard of Lucas North."

Stunned by the revelation, Tom lost his tongue for a moment. However, Christine stepped in and picked up where he left off.

"When did you last see him?" she asked. "You said you thought he was dead."

"It was a long time ago," she replied. "About 1995, then about. He left England with this loser, Paul Seward. They went to Africa. Paul came home without John and no one saw him again. I don't know anymore, I wish I could tell you more."

Christine wrote down the name immediately.

"Dr Lahan," said Tom, finally regaining the power of speech. "I understand you're very busy, but I was wondering if you could come to Thames House after your shift finishes-"

"Thames House?" Maya repeated, brow creased in consternation. "That's MI5, isn't it? Is that who you really are?"

Quick to react, Christine reached out to Maya and placed a hand gently on her arm, trying to reassure her. "No, but my husband and I have been hired by them to help Lucas," she explained. "Or John, rather."

Maya nodded, but Tom could tell from the look in her eyes, which were dark and expressive, that she was overwhelmed. "I'll tell my boss you're the police," she murmured. "I'll come with you and get this sorted."

Tom raised a smile, relieved that Maya was assisting them. While, without hesitation, Maya slipped from the cubicle with a swish of the curtain, leaving him and Christine alone together. Feeling for the examination table, Tom perched uneasily on the edge of it before he fell down. He hadn't seen Lucas in almost a decade, but no Agent, past or present, forgot the person who recruited them. Now, Lucas North was set to be remembered in more ways than one.

* * *

Ros drove into the car park behind Thames House and swerved into the first spot she saw, heedless of the disabled sign. She wrenched the keys from the ignition and snatched the dirty suitcase she found at Lucas' house up from the passenger seat. Hugging it close to her body, she marched into Thames House, catching up with Harry and Ruth, falling into step beside them but saying nothing. She no longer knew what to say. There was very little she could say. But already, the thoughts of the two years she and Lucas had spent together were making her feel faintly nauseas. In her mind, she kept repeating "benefit of the doubt" over and over, while all along, she could feel herself slowly withdrawing from him.

At work, she could conceal herself easily behind a veneer of professionalism. But for the last two nights, she had lain awake and tormented herself at leisure with thoughts of what Lucas was really doing, and for whom.

"Did you find anything?" asked Harry, glancing over at Ros over Ruth's head as they went through the pods.

Ros held the suitcase a little higher. "Only this."

Harry gave the innocuous looking object a dark look, but said no more as they made their way across the Grid. Ros, however, stopped dead in her tracks, rooted to the spot. Harry and Ruth also stopped a few steps ahead of her, and turned to see what the delay was. She was looking at Beth, who was sat behind her computer talking to Tariq.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, placing the suitcase down on Tariq's empty desk. "Where is Lucas?"

Harry and Ruth moved so that they were stood behind Ros, both fixing Beth with hard looks. Tariq had sent them the message to let them know Lucas had arrived. Next, Beth was meant to act as decoy to keep him out of the way.

"Beth, what happened?" Ruth asked, softening her stance.

Irritated, Ros' glower only intensified to make up for the sudden shortfall. Tariq almost wilted under the heat of her look, shrinking into the side lines as Beth took centre stage. She shook her head, slowly and looking abashed.

"He got away," she admitted. "He must have known we were on to him-"

"You let him get away!" Ros repeated, anger swelling in her chest. "How?"

"He attacked her-"

"Shut up, Tariq!" Ros cut over him, not deigning to look in his direction. She kept her eyes fixed firmly on Beth. "What the hell happened?"

Beth looked towards Tariq, then stood up to her full height and crossed the room, closing the distance between her and Ros so that they stood face to face. Ros could feel her breath on her throat as she looked up at her.

"He hit me as we got in the car," she explained, elaborating on Tariq's attempted explanation. Her gaze met Ros' unwaveringly. "He drove off at speed like a maniac. Now, if you lived with him for two years without realising he was selling out his country, don't you dare round on me because he lashed out unexpectedly and unprovoked." Her tone was low, giving as good as she got. "I don't think Tariq deserved that, either. We're not your punch bags."

With that, she turned on her heel and returned to her seat, refusing to look back at Ros who glared after her. After a second, she looked to Harry, expecting him to step in and tear a strip off her. He merely shrugged.

"Bad blood isn't going to solve anything," Ruth pointed out, reaching for the suitcase Ros liberated from Lucas' flat. "Can we please concentrate on Lucas?"

Ros watched her go, while Harry lingered behind and watched her carefully.

"Come on, Ros," he gently urged her. "There was nothing Beth could do. Now we need to concentrate on bringing him back in."

Ros was looking at Harry without seeing him. Beth's words playing on her mind. She should have known. She should have known immediately that something wasn't right; she thought she had done the right thing. But no matter what, she felt her control of the situation slipping from her fingers. She wasn't even angry at Beth, she was angry at Lucas for attacking her, angry with herself for not being quicker off the mark and it made her sick to the stomach.

"I-I…" she stammered, stepping backwards towards the pods. "I just need air."

Harry's answer was lost to her as she stumbled back outside, gasping at the air as if she'd just slipped the noose. Pausing at the top of the stairs, she took deep, steady breaths before heading outside. She reached the bottom step before Tom Quinn burst through the doors with Christine Dale as his side, and a woman she recognised as Maya Lahan following, trotting to keep up with them.

"Ros, we need to talk, immediately," he said.

"Ruth already told us what happened," added Christine. "Just got off the phone. There's more. A lot more."

All three swept past her without waiting for a reply. Maya paused, looked at her in utter, clear bewilderment, but even she did not stop long as she panted after Tom and Christine. For the first time in her career, Ros doubted whether she could take much more. She felt herself buckling against the cold, limestone wall and feeling the deadweight of dread descend once more. But, she also knew she had no choice but to re-enter the fray. She closed her eyes and massaged her temples for a minute and hurried to catch the other three up.

* * *

Although I am hoping to get another update in before Christmas, I can't guarantee it. So, just in case, have a great Christmas and happy new year to all my readers.


	6. Man on the Edge

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it's very much appreciated. Usual disclaimers apply: I own none of this. Sorry, but it's another long and grim one.

* * *

**Chapter Six: Man on the Edge**

"I am nothing, but I must be everything," - Karl Marx

Ros forced herself to listen to what Maya had to say. It took every ounce of self-control she had not to break down and it was only years of practise, of honing her emotional dislocation techniques that kept her together. Even so, in some small part of her mind that still indulged in wish fulfilment, she wanted to deny it all and scratch the other woman's eyes out for daring to cast aspersions on one of the best Agents she had known. But why would Maya make it up?

When she looked towards Harry, who was sat at the head of the table with his face buried in his hands. She could almost hear the sound of his faith in humanity being chipped away, yet again. Ruth sat beside him, keeping her thoughts to herself, concealed behind a blank expression and busying her fingers, fidgeting with a biro. Tom and Christine had already heard the story, so sifted through the contents of Lucas' suitcase at the far end of the table. They had separated photographs, face up but too far away for Ros to make the images out.

As for her, she didn't know how she actually felt towards Lucas, or John, any more. She reached down into the depths of her soul, trying to find some way to exonerate him. Clasping at straws or scraping barrels, she clung to anything. Then, a second would pass and she began to hate him with a force that left her shaken. As the lies piled up, the reasons to go out of her way to excuse him grew less. Eventually, she was forced to do what she did best: her job. This business with Lucas, or John, was just another op and there was never any room for emotions where the ops were concerned.

"This small time dealer Lu – John – fell in with," said Ruth, correcting herself midsentence. "Paul Seward. I'll ask Beth to check up on him; see if he knows anything."

Harry nodded. He didn't need to say anything. His downturned mouth, grim set expression betrayed the pain he was feeling at another kick in the teeth from someone who was meant to be on his side.

"We need to bring Lucas in, first of all," said Ros, refusing to call him anything else. She paused, realising that her request actually caused real pain: an open admission that Lucas no longer turned to her. The distance between them growing wider. "Maya, will you be able to arrange a meeting with Lucas? It sounds like you're his port in a storm, after all."

She looked to Maya, sitting right next to her, who replied with a nod.

"Should I tell him I'm here?" she asked, glancing around at them all, wide eyed with fear and apprehension.

"No, he'll get spooked," Harry advised. "Arrange to meet him somewhere out in the open, where we can take cover. He's already attacked one colleague and we can't risk panicking him even more."

"I can call him from here on my mobile, can't I? He won't be able to tell, will he?" she asked, uncertain and bewildered at the world she had stumbled into.

Ros clicked her tongue. "He's a spy, but that doesn't make him Mystic Meg."

Ruth shot her a sharp look which Ros deigned to ignore. Harry no longer had the will to intervene. However, sensing that proceedings were taking a turn for the less than productive, Tom Quinn made a timely intervention by sliding a photograph taken from the suitcase over to Maya, but speaking to Harry.

"We know that man, Harry," he said, "Vaughan Edwards. He's an Asset of ours."

Ros managed a quick glance at the picture, but only recognised Lucas, then swiftly shifted to Harry, to see how he reacted. His brow furrowed as he fixed Tom with a hard look, but his reply was cut off by Maya, who spoke up tremulously.

"This," she said, pointing to a man with sandy, receding hair and playful blue eyes. "This is Michael. My boyfriend. I met him two months ago."

The photograph was clearly an old one, going by the youth of the subjects and the fashions.

"That man is definitely Vaughan Edwards," Harry said, backing up Tom. "I run him myself: a freelance fixer type, with some highly dubious connexions. If he's linked to Lucas, we need to know how and why."

Harry didn't say as much, but Ros could see the threat level on Lucas had just risen a notch. Ros used the momentary lapse in discussion to air a fear of her own.

"So, is Lucas North simply a legend?" she asked. "Like any other."

"We need to speak to man himself to really get to the bottom of that," Ruth answered. "Maya, arrange to meet at the bandstand you met at before. It's familiar to you both, so won't raise any suspicion."

Maya reached down to retrieve her handbag from under her chair and rooted about inside it. When she withdrew her mobile, Ros placed a hand on her arm to stop her. She never apologised, but she knew when she had spoken out of turn to someone with whom she had more in common than not.

"I'll take you somewhere private for that," she said, keeping her tone conciliatory.

Maya replied with a shaky smile. "Thank you."

The briefing round down with Tom Quinn and his wife passing an old VHS video to Harry. They had retrieved it from the suitcase that was steadily giving up all of Lucas' secrets. However, Ros hadn't given up entirely on Lucas doing that himself. She and Maya left to find somewhere private, to make that call and bring him back into the fold.

* * *

Lucas didn't know how long he'd been driving for before he reached the opening to Malcolm's street. He found himself in a leafy suburb, outside north London, lined with large, spacious houses with immaculately trimmed lawns and privet hedges. It was safe, silent and secure. He pulled up outside Malcolm's house but made no move to open the door. Opening the glove compartment, he removed his gun and fit it securely in the inside pocket on his jacket and dialled Vaughan's number on his mobile. He answered immediately.

"Have you done what I asked?"

"I'm about to," Lucas replied, flatly. "I'll do this, then you leave. Fake or not; I want you out of my life."

There was no going back to MI5 now, but he would get Maya and get out of England as soon as he could. They would make a new life together; he'd done it before and he could do so again. It was all he had left to hold on to, now.

"Then don't call me again until it's done."

With that, the line went dead. With nothing left to lose, Lucas got out of the car and made his way up Malcolm's driveway. He had the story straight in his head: Harry was in trouble and he needed Albany for leverage. Malcolm would do anything for Harry, no questions asked. And Lucas had to believe that, too. The thought of actually using the gun in his jacket made him feel nauseas. But, he pushed all such thoughts aside as he rang the doorbell and waited. Moments later, footsteps approached the door and it opened without hesitation. However, it wasn't Malcolm. Lucas found himself face to face with Jo Portman. If he was stunned to see her, the feeling wasn't mutual. She looked up at him through those large, doleful eyes completely unsurprised to see him standing there. The feeling of an invisible net closing over him grew that little bit stronger.

"Lucas," she said, keeping her tone soft. "Lucas come inside."

She held the door open for him, but he remained where he stood. Seeing his reticence, she ploughed on, showing no fear but continuing to try and tempt him inside.

"I don't know what's happening, or why you need Albany; to tell you the truth, I'm not much interested," she said. "But everyone is worried about you, Lucas. All we want to do is talk to you."

Jo held out her hand, coaxing him inside. But all Lucas could do was stare at it, fighting internally to find a way out. He would be back in prison soon; back in a cell for the rest of his life and he knew Jo could do nothing about that. She was the velvet glove soothing him into a state of passivity, while Harry Pearce and MI5 would be the iron fist concealed inside, waiting to crush him like a bug.

"Are you alone?" he asked, backing away.

"Beth was here," she replied. "But I am alone now. Malcolm never did have Albany, but he's gone too. We couldn't risk it, Lucas. Give up now and we can sort this out together."

Every door was closing and there was no way out left to him but running. He stepped backwards off the step, almost unbalancing himself.

"You don't know what I've done," he replied, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. "There's nothing you can do."

His mobile began ringing, but he suspected it was Vaughan, chivvying him along.

"Answer it," Jo said to him.

She was buying time, but Lucas complied. Seeing Maya's name and number on the caller display, he afforded himself a small ray of hope as he answered.

"Maya, where are you?"

Jo retreated behind the door to give him a veneer of privacy, but he knew she'd be doing her best to listen in. However, he stopped caring about that when he heard Maya's choked sobs on the other end of the line.

"Maya!" he called out, starting to panic. "What's happening? Where are you?"

More choking sobs. Somewhere inside the house, a door closed and someone started a car engine. He was about to check the source of the noise, when Maya spoke.

"John, please, you have to help me. It's my boyfriend, Michael," she was able to explain between sniffs. She sounded breathless, like she'd been running. "His real name's Vaughan Edwards and he's threatening to kill me. I only just managed to get away."

Just for a second, his heart stopped beating. When it started again, it raced at thrice the speed as he tried to process exactly what was happening. But through the tumult of his mind, only one thing mattered.

"Where are you? I'm coming to get you."

Already he was heading towards the car, pulling the door open as she gave her location.

"Hurry please," she tearfully implored him, her voice rising higher in sheer terror. "He knows I met you here and he'll find me. Please hurry."

Vaughan would no longer be needing the Albany file; not where Lucas was intent on sending him, anyway. He started the car and pulled out into the road, dimly aware that Jo had second guessed his next move and was following him. There was no time to try and shake her off, he needed to get to Maya as a matter of urgency. Only then would he be able to lose her.

The journey was a blur. He had to swerve to dodge people crossing the roads and several times, he found himself narrowly avoiding head on collisions and the traffic lights were somebody else's problem; other road users would just have to get out of his way. Speed, as well as time, was of the essence.

He made it to the park where they met, having sustained several scrapes to the car's paintwork. Not bothering to assess the damage, he ran through the gates, over the lawns all the way to the bandstand, where he saw her hunched down by the railings. He stopped as she came into view, breathing a sigh of relief as she appeared uninjured. Taking his time to get his breath back, he approached her at a walk. She only noticed his arrival after a minute and their gaze met.

"Oh, John, thank god you're here," she said, getting up and running to meet him. There were no tears, now. She appeared perfectly calm. "There's some people here who want to talk to you."

"What?" he asked, his expression hardening into a frown. "Who?"

His chest tightened as Ros stepped out from behind the rotunda. Simultaneously, Harry appeared from the opposite side. Both fixed him with hard looks in their eyes; arms folded as they regarded him the same way as most of the terrorists who'd crossed their paths. Slowly, at first, he backed away from Maya as though contact with her had burned him.

"You lied," he whispered. "You tricked me."

She didn't deny it; she didn't look sorry.

"For what it's worth, Vaughan was my boyfriend," she said. "But I won't let myself be dragged into your games, John. Give it up now, and go with your colleagues."

Lucas felt as though the ground beneath his feet had suddenly given way and he was now free falling into an abyss. Everything had slipped from his grasp. He was dimly aware of Harry moving closer to him, reaching out. But all Lucas could hear was the cell door slamming shut, the echo of the Guards' boots outside and the metallic jangle of keys. All the sounds that sent him straight back to prison, back to hell. He relived it all: the water soaking through the towel, dry drowning him in slow, agonising stages; the sinister crackle of the electric terminals, clamping him to a car battery fully charged with the promise of the torture to come. He was standing on the brink of it all over again.

He wasn't even aware of the fact that he was running until he collided with Jo, who'd followed him all the way from Malcolm's. They grabbed each other and spun round in circles as they each fought to regain their balance. But, once righted, he threw her off as easily as a loose leaf, she was so slight. Jo was also resilient: she was chasing him down again within seconds. He could hear the others, all calling after him. A gunshot echoed in the distance that sent the by-standing dog walkers running like rats from a burning barn.

The duck pond appeared out of nowhere and he came to such an abrupt halt he almost fell in anyway. Crashing to his knees at the water's edge, he realised with a deadening numbness that there really was nowhere left to run. Lucas came to rest on all fours by the edge of the pond, fighting to breathe through the choking fear that swelled his throat. Jo's footsteps pounded on the ground, getting louder and closer until he pulled the gun out of his jacket and thrust the barrel to his own temple as he set up to face her.

"Lucas, no!" Jo shouted, crashing to a standstill mere feet away from him.

His finger tightened on the trigger as he thumbed the hammer back, readying himself to take the shot. He didn't care anymore. He knew what lay ahead and he knew he couldn't go back there. A few feet away, Jo lowered herself to the ground so they were level with each other. She was panting and sweating from the run, despite the bitter cold.

"Put the gun down, Lucas," she said, quickly regaining her breath.

He was barely aware of cold steel barrel pressing into the side of his own head. No one else was going to get hurt because of him. All those others would finally be avenged. Ros and Maya would be free from him, and the trouble he always brought with him. He would be free, too. Free from Russia; from the crushing weight of his own history. All that, and on his own terms. He heard the bullet slide into place as the hammer drew back. Any second now, he would do it. But he needed Jo to know why.

"Lucas wait," she said, keeping eye contact and talking to all the world as if the gun in his hand were nothing more than a toy. "You're not alone, Lucas."

In the distance Ros, Harry and Tom Quinn – who Lucas did not notice before – all came skidding around the corner and into his line of vision. They each steadied the other as they all collided and turned to look from Jo to Lucas and back again. Once they realised what was happening, they dared come no further. Jo pretended that she had not noticed their arrival, and kept her focus only on Lucas.

"You don't know me, Jo," he said, weakly.

"No, I know I don't," she replied. "In this job, I don't think we ever truly know our colleagues. But we know each other's experiences, and isn't that enough? You and I, Lucas, we've been to hell and back for MI5. But that's the point: we came back."

He couldn't see the point, but his grip on the trigger of the gun slackened as he found himself listening to her voice. She still showed no fear as she talked to him; her expression was soft as she coaxed him out of himself.

"If you knew what I'd done, you'd be pulling the trigger for me," he said.

"Would I?" she asked. "I'll never be able to answer that question, if you take the choice out of my hands. But that's irrelevant and you know it is. Give me the gun, Lucas."

She held her hand out, stretching as much as she could towards him.

"You and I, we both know what it's like to endure something so awful that it taints the rest of our lives," she talked on. "In my dreams, they rape me every night. They played these tape recordings of people being tortured. I still hear their screams; my own are lost among them as they take their turn with me. I relive it all the time, Lucas. It's always there, lying like a crust over my life."

His hand trembled as it gripped the gun, slackening. He didn't know her at the time, but he was there for the emotional fall out. He wanted to say something to her, but the words, his own inadequate words, choked him. It wasn't Russia, it was something else. He couldn't tell her that.

"Different times; different people; different methods," Jo pressed on. "But the same effect and you know what it's like as well as I do. Do you know what I did next, Lucas?"

"No," he shook his head, letting the barrel of the gun slip as he allowed Jo to connect with him, unconsciously.

Jo raised a small smile. "Before I was rescued, I got the men who attacked me, and I stamped on their faces until they were minced into the fucking ground. I had their blood on my face, it was still warm and I carried on kicking and punching until they were pulped as shit. Just a few hours before that moment, I was so shit scared I begged Adam Carter to kill me. But then I realised, I am only their victim if I choose to be. And I am not their victim; nor are you. I can help you, like I helped myself. But you have to let me."

All that time, she had her hand held out for the gun. She gave another push, stretching out that little bit more, encouraged by him lowering his hand.

"Hand me the gun, Lucas," she said, her tone getting firmer now. "You know this isn't the answer. Let me – let everyone – help you. Please. Don't let them win; don't give up."

Lucas stopped thinking and did as he was told, swallowing hard as his hand connected with Jo's and the gun was passed to her. Immediately, she emptied the chambers and put the safety catch on.

"Come with me, now," she said, holding out her hand again. "We're going to Thames House and we're going to get this dealt with."

* * *

The journey back to Thames House was conducted in silence. Ros travelled with Harry and Maya, while Tom Quinn brought Lucas and Jo back in his car. It was while Lucas had his own gun to his head that she realised she still loved him. Whoever he really is; whatever he's really done, she knew at that moment she couldn't just switch her feelings off. But the day's events had left her drained and frantic to the point of nervous exhaustion. Nothing more could be done that day, they all needed to take a backwards step and to take stock again. She knew, also, that there was no way she was going to let Lucas out of her sight.

"When we get back, I want one of the holding cells prepared for Lucas," she said, flatly.

Harry glanced sidelong at her. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm positive."

"You know what that will do-"

"I know, Harry," she retorted, waspishly.

The guilt was almost overwhelming. Despite all the lies he had told; despite the fact he had brought this all down on his own head, she still hated herself for putting him back in a cell. All she wanted was to have everything finally out in the open, and it was for that reason she was having him locked up again. There was so much more at stake than her own happiness, now. Lucas' very life was in the balance.

To take her mind off Lucas, she glanced into the rear view mirror, to where Maya was sitting silently in the back seat. "Maya, we'll find a safe house for you, near Thames House. You'll have a guard for protection, at least until we get Vaughan Edwards."

"Thank you," her voice replied from the back.

Half an hour later, they regrouped in the meeting room at Thames House – with the exception of Maya, who was already being taken to safety. Lucas was still clinging close to Jo. Ros had no idea of what she'd said to him to make him drop that gun, but it had smashed the Senior Case Officers defences to dust. Occasionally, he looked across the room towards her, longing in his eyes as they caught each other staring. More than anything, Ros wanted to go over there and tell him that everything would be alright. But she could never be so cruel as to offer false comfort. Nor could caress him with one hand and lock him up with the other.

After a few minutes, Beth Bailey appeared in the meeting room and bent down to whisper in Ros' ear.

"Cell's ready," she said, careful to keep her voice as low as possible. "Remember to take his shoelaces and belt. He's on suicide watch."

Ros looked up at her and nodded her thanks.

"Lucas," she said, getting up again and crossing the room to where he sat. "You're to come with me now."

Meekly, he got up and followed her out, hanging his head as Harry fell into step behind them. Ros led the way in stoic silence, but Lucas soon realised where they were leading him. He stopped dead in his tracks, but ended up just being pushed along by Harry, who was following them. He gave Lucas no choice but to follow.

"Ros," he said as they passed out of the Grid via the back exit. "Ros, talk to me. You can't do this-"

"I have to," she cut him off, refusing to look back at him and see the anguish in his eyes. She kept telling herself it was hurting her more than him, that it was all for his own good. She didn't need to look back at him to have those illusions shattered.

They reached the cells with only a minimal fuss from Lucas, who seemed, for the time being at least, to have given up the ghost. He removed his shoes, slid the belt from off his trousers and surrendered anything else that could, with imagination, be used to form a noose. Then came his mobile phone and wallet, slipped into a clear plastic bag that Harry was holding open. One of their security men was holding the cell door open. Inside, it was drab and grey, with just a small bed to sit on. Fitted sheets covered it, making it impossible to use them for anything but their intended purpose. Other than that, there was nothing. It would give him time to think, to clear his head and, if possible, to sleep. He needed to rest and Ros was willing to drug him, should the need arise.

"Why can't I talk now?" he asked, getting edgy again now that he was being shunted into the cell. "Ros, please," he begged, turning to look at her. "Please, don't let them do this to me."

Ros turned away. She may well cave in if she saw him properly and she no longer trusted herself.

"Ros, don't let them!" he called, voice muffled mid flow as the cell door slammed shut. "Ros!"

His fist pounded on the cell door, drowning out the sound of the key turning in the lock. But Ros was already walking away, struggling to keep her face straight as she fought against the tears that now threatened to spill, losing a little more ground to them as Lucas' pleas faded into the background. She broke off from Harry halfway back to the Grid and burst into the Ladies toilets where, just for a minute or two, she let herself succumb to the tears and storming semi-grief for the man she knew as Lucas North.

Panda eyed, but back in control of herself, she dried her eyes and cleaned herself up again. Now, she resolved, she would get to the bottom of what was going on. The fight was far from over.


	7. The Interrogation

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read this story, and especially to those who have taken the time to review. Thank you!

* * *

**Chapter Seven: The Interrogation  
**

"False face must hide what the false heart doth know"

- Shakespeare, MacBeth

After a long, broken night in the cells, they came for Lucas at nine the following morning. He'd fallen into a fitful nap not long before, only to find himself being roughly shaken back into consciousness by the hands of one of the Thames House security guards. Contrary to expectations, he was led to Section D's meeting room, rather than being interrogated in the interview room – some small concession to the fact he had provided MI5 with years of dedicated service.

Harry, Ruth, Ros and Tom Quinn were already in there, waiting for him when he arrived. They were all grouped at the far end of the table, sticking close together and keeping him at a distance, where he sat in the place normally occupied by Harry. As he sat down, Lucas briefly glanced at each in turn: Harry hid his feelings behind a carefully constructed look of indifference; Tom and Ros had their heads together as they whispered over some document sat between them. But Ruth managed a small smile as he settled down. He couldn't help but be curious about how Tom Quinn had become roped into this.

Amidst all the panic and chaos of the last week, Lucas hadn't really considered how he would feel to be the one on the outside. The subject of a case; rather than the one to pursue it. He felt like he was populating a parallel universe where everything was upside down. However, now that the moment arrived, he wanted only to purge himself of the burden he had been carrying since the day that bomb went off. That old adage – the truth will set you free – had been playing in his head in all night. And it would bring freedom, of sorts. But, under the circumstances, he considered it wise to let Harry speak first, rather than plunging straight in.

Facing Lucas directly, Harry fixed him with a hard, blank-eyed look as he reclined in his seat. The two key women in his life – Ruth and Ros – on either side of him, followed suit as the latter's private conference with Tom Quinn came to a sudden halt. Under scrutiny from all four of them at once, Lucas inwardly quailed. But, overnight in the solitude of his cell, he had abandoned himself to his fate and resolved to salvage as much of his honour as he could by making a full and frank confession.

"First things first, tell us who you are," said Harry, ending the terrible silence that descended over the room.

Lucas let his gaze drop to where he his hands were splayed out on the table in front of him.

"My real name is John Bateman," he replied, keeping his head down.

He had agonised over the reactions he would get from his colleagues, preparing himself for the anger and disgust. But the reality was even worse – they did nothing.

"Now tell us how you came to be using the name Lucas North," said Harry, without much hesitation. "We know that you were in Dakar, so you might care to explain that, while you're at it."

To begin at the beginning was harder than it sounded, but Lucas went back there anyway. He reached far back, to when he dropped out of University and travelled with a friend who intended on making his millions as a small time drug smuggler and the arrest that followed. Reaching the point where he landed a job as a casino croupier in Dakar, he paused for breath and gathered his thoughts before continuing to the most important part of his story.

"There was another Brit working there, and we became friends," he continued. "His name was Lucas North-"

"So this is more than an empty legend, he was a real person?" Ros interjected.

Briefly, Lucas glanced up at her and replied with a small nod. He had never felt the full force of her silent disdain, until that moment.

"He introduced me to Vaughan Edwards – another Brit who was a regular at the casino. But he warned me off him afterwards; said he was nothing but trouble-"

"Which only made you even more eager to get to know that man," Harry sighed.

Again, Lucas nodded before explaining how he came to work for Vaughan, relaying messages and delivering packages. No questions asked and the soul of discretion. He had been desperate for the money; far from home with no passport and no way out. Then, he reached the heart of the story:

"I made enough money to buy a new passport and a ticket home," Lucas explained. "But Vaughan had one more job he needed doing and it paid more than the others combined. He needed me to collect a briefcase from the reception of the Somali Embassy and deliver it to the British Embassy, nearby. To leave it outside the Ambassador's office, where it would be collected when the Ambassador left a meeting that afternoon-"

"Please, don't tell me this is going where I think it's going?" Harry asked, visibly recoiling from the inevitable.

For the first time since the conversation began, Lucas stalled as he struggled to find the right words to say. However, Tom Quinn interjected before Lucas could resume recounting his story.

"I've already seen what's on that VHS tape," he said. "It was CCTV footage from inside the Embassy."

Harry looked round at Tom as though about to ask something. However, he changed his mind and looked back at Lucas. "Carry on," he said, flatly.

"I left the Embassy as Vaughan instructed," he explained. "And I called him on a mobile he'd given me. They were new, back then, and it took me a minute to get it right. I let it ring three times and then hung up. Just as I hung up, the bomb detonated. I can't remember anything after that. It's a blur. I just remember panicking – I had no idea that it was a bomb…"

His words broke off as he lost the power of speech. He could still hear the explosion in his head, could still see the victims emerging from the dust cloud that swelled over the scene, blotting out the sun.

"Senegal still had the death penalty back then," Lucas explained, giving up on articulating his own horror at what had happened. "I would have been hanged-"

"Some might say you'd have deserved it," Ros cut in, her tone flat.

"But not us, Rosalynd," Harry remarked, pointedly. He turned back to Lucas and told him, again, to continue.

"I needed to get out of the country, fast," he explained. "Vaughan said there was a boat leaving that night and we would be on it, if only I could get a passport. I asked Lucas if I could borrow his, but he refused. He was joining MI5 and couldn't afford to get mixed up in anything like that. So-"

"So, you killed him for his passport and joined MI5 in his place," Ros finished for him, a look of sheer incredulity on her face.

Once again, Lucas could only nod. Ros looked as though she wanted to vomit; Harry had retreated completely within himself, but Ruth was leaning forwards in her seat, pointing her pen at him.

"So, all these years you have been in MI5 using a dead man's identity and no one has noticed?" she asked. "The real Lucas North didn't have a single relative or friend who noticed his absence?"

Lucas shrugged, but Ruth didn't see it as she reached into her file and withdrew a photograph. She slid it down the table, to where Lucas was sitting. He looked at the three of them: Vaughan, Lucas and himself.

"Is that him in the middle?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied.

Ruth gestured for him to hand it back, which he did. Then, she leaned over to Harry and whispered something Lucas couldn't hear in his ear. Harry nodded in agreement, prompting Ruth to look back at Lucas.

"And Vaughan is blackmailing you, hence the desperate attempts to get hold of Albany," she said, grimly filling in the last blank.

"God knows, it's not like he's lacking leverage over you," Harry interjected.

"Harry, I can bring him in," Lucas said, eager for the opportunity to help. "Let me do this."

However, Harry actually laughed aloud.

"You must be bloody joking," he retorted, rising to his feet and letting his anger show for the first time. "You will be returned to your cell where you will await the outcome of our investigations. Then, in all likelihood, you will be handed over to the correct authorities to face justice for the deaths of seventeen men, women and children. Oh, and Lucas North, too. Is there anyone else we need to know about? Anymore bodies buried under the Lucas North legend?"

Ros also got to her feet and fixed Lucas in an icy glare. "Since Senegal no longer has the death penalty, I'm pretty sure extradition proceedings will be forthcoming very soon."

The meeting had reached its end as the others got up to leave and the Security Guard reappeared to return Lucas to his new home. He made no fuss, put up no resistance as he let himself be led away.

* * *

They gave themselves an hour to take stock, but Ruth couldn't wait that long. She tracked Tom down as he was about to leave the Grid for lunch with Christine and fell into step alongside him. They had not yet had a chance to catch up on a personal level, but as he went to congratulate her on the wedding, she cut him off.

"This isn't right," she said, craning her neck to look up at him; frantic to impress her point on someone. "I'm not just saying this out of affection for Lucas, honestly. You know me, Tom: I'm not like that. I'm not naïve and I'm not foolish, so hear me out. Harry and Ros aren't ready to listen, so you're my last hope. Please Tom," she kept cutting off his efforts to interject, until he had to shout. "I know this sounds insane, but-"

"Ruth!" he stopped her and turned to face her. "Ruth, slow down. I know; I agree. There's something I need you to see and it's on that tape."

Relief washed over her. Relief and curiosity. She had been referring to the mysterious Lucas North who hadn't a friend or relative in the world; she'd quite forgotten the old VHS tape they discovered in the suitcase. However, her request for further information was met with silence as they headed outside and toward Tom's car. Before they set off, he called Christine to cancel the lunch date.

Half an hour crawling through the London traffic, and they made it. They bought sandwiches from the nearby deli and the receptionist had tea waiting for them when they arrived. But, without preamble, Tom led Ruth over to where an old VHS player had been set up in his office. He switched the TV on and played the video, cursing as he struggled to rewind it. Ruth had almost forgotten the hassle of video tapes, since they had become obsolete many moons ago. When he pressed 'play' again, the ticker information informed them that there were looking at the lobby of the British Embassy, Dakar and the time was 2:55pm.

"So you already knew about the bomb?" she asked.

"Not exactly, no," he replied. "But I did see Lucas enter the building, just about here…" he pointed to the screen, at a young man in an ill-fitting, cream linen suit – unmistakably a much younger Lucas. "There he is, leaving a briefcase beside that bench. Now watch what happens."

Ruth watched as the Lucas on the screen deposited the briefcase, then the picture broke up and the screen went dark. She waited to see if the images came back on, but the screen remained completely blank.

"What happened?" she asked. "Is that the bomb?"

Tom smiled. "Ros gave me this yesterday and I was studying this footage all night, but it didn't make sense until Lucas confessed this morning," he said. "I didn't know what it was, just that it came from the British Embassy in Dakar in 1995. But look, watch it again with Lucas' information in mind."

He rewound the tape to a few minutes previously, when Lucas first walked into the frame carrying the briefcase. She watched again, even more carefully, he mounted the steps, up to the first floor and left the briefcase beside the bench. Then, as with before, the picture suddenly distorted, broke up and went dark. Ruth smiled.

"Someone deliberately knocked the cameras out as soon as Lucas left the briefcase outside the Ambassador's office," she said, eyes still fixed on the blank screen. "Whoever it was, it wasn't Lucas himself because he's clearly still in shot when it happens. It's as if whoever did it was waiting for him to deliver the briefcase first."

Tom leaned back in his seat and rubbed the stubble at his chin. "That's not all," he said. "You can detonate a bomb with a mobile phone. But, it has to be a unique code. Lucas called another phone number, let it ring three times and then hung up. I think the bomb was remotely detonated by someone else altogether. Whoever it was he called-"

"Vaughan Edwards," Ruth put in. Tom nodded. "But surely Lucas knows this, so why is he still saying that he detonated the bomb?"

Tom shrugged. "My guess is he didn't know how these things worked at the time," he explained. "Blamed himself immediately and it's taken root. Maybe he still doesn't fully understand it. It's not like he's thinking clearly at the moment."

He ejected the tape and, leaving the sandwiches abandoned, got up to leave. The decision was made to get the tape to Harry as soon as possible.

* * *

Ros sat alone at her desk as she leafed through the files on the Dakar bombing. Jo had taken the day off, since she had talked Lucas out of shooting himself, it was thought she needed it. Tariq was silent, unusually subdued as he toyed with his computer – running a facial recognition on the real Lucas North. Even Beth didn't dare speak, and taken herself off for lunch as soon as Ros reappeared on the Grid. So, there she sat with the files to herself, free from awkward questions.

The bomb detonated at 3:15pm, killing seventeen people. A photograph showed a vast crater in the ground, surrounded by the debris of the shattered Embassy, which had only partially been cleared away. She frowned and turned another page, where there was a better picture, showing the site fully cleared, revealing the bomb crater in its entirety. She looked again at the layout of the Embassy, her frown deepening. The Ambassador's Offices were on the first floor, well clear of the ground.

"Harry!" she called out, hoping he could hear from inside his office.

He could not. She rose and swept the file off the desk, marching rapidly into Harry's office without knocking. He was too subdued to notice. Instead, he lifted his forlorn visage up to where she stood and gestured to the empty seat before his desk.

"Look at the bomb site," she said, pointing to the aerial picture of the bombed out Embassy, affording a clear view of the crater. "If Lucas left the bomb on the first floor, then would there really be a crater of that size in the ground?"

Harry studied the picture carefully. Usually, bombs left craters if they were dropped from the skies, or left in either the ground floor or basement of a building. Otherwise, there was a buffer zone that left blast damage, but not a full crater. However, Harry did not look enthused.

"Bateman's probably just lied about where he left the bomb, that's all," he replied, sounding despondent. "Something Ruth said to me during the meeting got me thinking: the Somali connection. It wasn't too long after the Somali's shot down two Black Hawks in Mogadishu. A great coup for the local warlords. It seems that the Embassy in Dakar was another one – an opportunity for them to strike against the other great Western Satan. The UK."

"You were still at Six, weren't you? This was on your watch?" she asked, not intending to pick open an old wound. Just curious.

"I was," Harry nodded, thumbing through some of the other pages in the Dakar file. "I still can't believe that our Lucas is capable. Not after everything he's done for this country. None of it makes sense, Ros. None of it."

The back pages of the file contained images of the dead. Bodies had been clumsily stitched back together, like Frankenstein's monsters all bloated with death, a patchwork of limbs and torsos. His gallows humour kicked in as he couldn't help but grin at the analogy. Still, Ros could see the pain in his eyes. He looked so tired, and older than she had ever noticed before.

"Harry," she said, softly.

The rest of her sentence was cut off by his phone ringing. He picked it up and glanced at the caller display. "Ruth," he mouthed at her as he answered. Ros sat back and pretended she did not have ears as the private call commenced. But still, she could just pick up Ruth's voice chattering away.

"Wait, Ruth," Harry said, waving a hand to get Ros' attention. "In the footage, does Lucas leave the briefcase on the first floor?"

Ros sat up abruptly, listening in unashamedly but could make nothing out.

"He did?" Harry confirmed. "Right, bring it in immediately. We'll be in the meeting room with a VHS player salvaged from somewhere."

The call ended and Harry got up immediately, beckoning Ros to follow him to the meeting room.

"Well, this gets curiouser and curiouser," he remarked as he led the way across the Grid. "He did leave the bomb on the first floor, and someone else entirely cut out the CCTV ten minutes before the explosion happened."

Ros didn't see the relevance of that, but assumed all would be revealed when Ruth and Tom returned. Harry, for his part, didn't look hopeful as she wished he would. But he looked puzzled. Like her, he was coming to the conclusion that something was deeply amiss. Then, just as they were about to query Tariq about the possibility of procuring a VHS player, the man himself appeared at the door of the meeting room, brandishing some print outs. He held them aloft.

"You guys really need to see this," he said, sounding mildly hyperactive. Without waiting for a reply, he ploughed on. "I ran the facial recognition on the real Lucas North hoping that it would lead me to some living relatives. But, actually, it led me back to him. Our dead man was arrested in Sierra Leone in 1998 for supplying paramilitaries with AK-47s. And look who was arrested alongside him."

He held out the print outs to Ros who snatched them up and glared at the images, dumbfounded. "Vaughan Edwards," she whispered, a smile breaking out on her face. "Great work, Tariq. Harry, just look at this."

The first printout was the real Lucas North's mug shot. The second showed Vaughan Edwards. It was unmistakable. The names were different: Dylan Hughes was under North's image. Michael Smith was under Vaughan's.

"We need to bring Vaughan in, right now," Harry said, suddenly back and firing on all cylinders. "Tariq, excellent work, but can you try and track this Dylan Hughes down. Oh, and we need a VHS player. And get Jo and Beth back in here, ASAP!"

Tariq grinned like a child being offered a sweetshop full of chocolate. "Right away!"

Once they were alone again, Harry and Ros got settled at the table and took a minute to gather their thoughts. Whatever was happening, it was still far from clear and their Lucas North was far from out of the woods. But what was clear was that someone, somewhere had been set up on a grand scale. For the time being, they resolved to leave their Lucas where he was. He was mentally unfit for the job and they needed clear heads like never before. It was only with regret that Ros realised they would need Maya again, through her they could get to Vaughan.


	8. Dead Man Walking

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you.

* * *

**Chapter Eight: Dead Man Walking**

Briefly, Ros considered bringing Lucas up to speed on the latest developments. But when she checked the CCTV monitors, she found him fast asleep, his long frame stretched out on the cot bed fixed to the wall. A good few inches too tall for it, his feet were hanging off the end. While she watched, he tried to roll over, a tattooed arm flopping over the side, hitting the cold, tiled floor and waking him with a start. It was the way the cells were designed: maximum discomfort, everything proportioned to be that little bit too small or just out of reach. All the better to break people, but Lucas was already well and truly broken. Left there much longer, and they may not be able to piece him back together again.

Turning away from the monitors in the small surveillance room, she paused to speak with the Security Guard who'd stepped outside to give her privacy.

"Keep up the suicide watch on Lucas," she instructed, working to keep the twinge of pain from her face. "I'm going to have a word with Harry, see if we can't get him moved out to Tring."

The Guard gave a nod and a smile. "Right you are, miss."

She started walking back towards the meeting room, paused and glanced back at the Guard who was just returning to his station. "And thank you," she called after him.

When she returned to the meeting room, everyone was already in place. Ruth, Tom and Harry sat grouped at the far end of the table, while Jo, Tariq and Beth all occupied the left hand side. A video player had been salvaged from somewhere and had been rigged up to an old TV – it being incompatible with the smart screen they normally used. Tariq looked as if he wanted a hot bath after sullying himself with such stone-age technology. Not for the first time, Ros hankered for the days when Malcolm was still on the Grid – he was more than capable of staying abreast of the technological explosion, but he had been around long enough to appreciate the old methods.

Tom got up to operate the VCR, rewinding the tape showing the lobby of the Embassy. He pointed to one of the people, entering via double doors. The image was grainy – typical of mid-90s, pre-digital CCTV, but Lucas could still be made out if they all squinted. They all watched, with Tom giving a running commentary, as Lucas deposited the briefcase beside the bench, followed by the picture breaking up and going dark.

"If it was a power cut, the whole thing would have gone shut off in an instant," Tariq said, referring to the end of the tape. "The distortion was someone pulling the cables on the actual cameras, or messing up the settings."

"Exactly," Tom said, still standing beside the machine. "Whoever was in the camera room that day was waiting for Lucas to deliver that briefcase. Or, it's a hell of a coincidence. Ruth has more for us,"

He resumed his seat just as Ruth got to her feet and rifled through some papers in a file. She selected one in particular and placed it in the middle of the table, where everyone could see it. It showed the image of a large, African man in his late forties or early fifties, dressed smartly in a clean, pressed uniform of white shirt and black tie. An identity badge was pinned to his lapel, the bottom half out of view of the camera.

"This gentleman," Ruth explained. "Is Mamadou Bacary – I found him on the list of survivors contained in the files. I have already contacted Six, they tell me he still works as a Security Guard, manning the CCTV cameras, at the British Embassy in Dakar. He was there on the day of the blast, but survived because a maintenance man had come to fix his cameras. He used the opportunity to go outside for a smoke, which meant he had to go well outside the perimeter gates. He made a joke out of it to the local papers – the day smoking saved his life. He also said that the maintenance on the cameras was unscheduled, but that had happened before. He assumed it was a regular spot check, rather than anything suspicious."

Ros wanted to believe that it was enough to get Lucas off the hook, but she had to admit that it still could all be a coincidence. If it was maintenance, then it would be normal for the cameras to go off. But, that didn't explain how, or why, the tape came to be in Vaughan Edwards' possession, he could only have got that if it was handed to him directly. Harry, however, seemed more optimistic.

"Get Bacary's contact details," he said, gesturing to Beth Bailey. "Call him, and find out if he can give a description of this maintenance man. And try again with Paul Seward, Lucas' old drug running friend."

"Sure, Harry," she agreed.

"We already have a man moving about the building in blue overalls, so he could be the maintenance man in question," Tom put in, rewinding the tape again. When he stopped the tape and played it again, the ticker informing them it was fifteen minutes before Lucas' 3.05pm arrival. Grainy images of a white man slipping into a side door appeared. However, his features were impossible to make out beyond the blue fuzz of his overalls and a smudge of dark hair. Desperate to make the man out, Ros went cross-eyed with the effort. It wasn't Lucas, there wouldn't be enough time for him to do whatever he was doing and get changed before re-entering the building through the front doors.

When Tom sat down again, Ros took her turn to speak.

"We also know that the bomb in the Embassy was placed in the basement, which is where I believe our maintenance man was heading in the CCTV footage we just saw," she began, growing more hopeful. "Lucas left the briefcase outside the Ambassador's office on the first floor, well away from the actual blast site. We know it wasn't moved, as there wouldn't have been enough time and, frankly, what would the point be. Whatever was in that suitcase, it wasn't a bomb."

"A dead drop of some sort?" asked Jo, leaning forward.

"It's possible," Harry answered. "You need experience and expertise to set, prime and code a bomb. Something like this would also involve extortionate amounts of money being paid to the bomber and his handler. Would they really trust a job so big to a student drifter like our Lucas? It's very unlikely. Then, of course, there's Tariq's findings to enlighten us further." Harry stopped talking and motioned for Tariq to deliver a synopsis of his own discoveries.

"Yes, I ran facial recognition on the fake Lucas North," he began to explain, getting to his feet. Ros felt herself almost overcome with a sudden desire to kiss him for branding their mystery man as a 'fake'. The real Lucas North – she was becoming increasingly convinced – was festering in their cells; he just wasn't born with the name, that was all and people changed their names all the time. Meanwhile, Tariq continued explaining his findings.

"I wanted to find Fake Lucas' relatives because no one, ever, just springs into being out of thin air," he said. "Even if his parents were dead, they'd still leave records. But there was nothing. What there was, was this chap." He flicked on the smart screen and pulled up a picture of the convict, Dylan Hughes. "Fake Lucas was arrested in Sierra Leone alongside Vaughan Edwards in 1998, three years after his alleged murder. Unsurprisingly, he's using another name. Lucas North, it seems, was an empty legend that was simply passed from one man, to another."

"Lucas is being totally set up," Jo interjected, voice shrill with indignant excitement. "We need to bring Vaughan Edwards in, right now. Where is this other Lucas North? Can't we find him?"

Tariq answered with a subdued shrug. "He's dropped off the radar, but I'm willing to bet he's lying in wait somewhere in the background."

Tom got up again and thanked Tariq for his work. Then, he moved to the head of the table, leaning down and pressing his knuckles into the table top. He looked each of them in the eye, a look so intense even Ros felt herself shrinking back from it. She was only dimly aware of Tom's personal history in MI5, but still knew enough he'd once been framed himself, coming to within a Gnat's arse of flushing his whole life down the toilet. It was how Adam came to join them.

"We know Vaughan Edwards," Tom said, turning to look directly at Harry. "We know what he's like and what he's capable of. With that in mind, I want to hypothesise that Vaughan has planned this himself, from the very beginning – including North's faked death. He was employed by the Somalis to arrange that bombing. A man like Edwards was never going to dirty his own hands and, clearly, the Fake Lucas is a regular partner in crime. They arranged it so that our Lucas would always believe himself responsible, which would give them complete control over him when they planted him in MI5. Our Lucas, to them, was nothing more than a disposable pawn who, one day, would come in very useful when they wanted something – like the Albany File – then he could be easily dispensed with."

"Just going back to the plant in MI5," Harry said, remaining seated. "Perhaps the faux Lucas North was meant to be the plant all along – hence him taking all the entrance tests, but then Edwards realised North was much more valuable to him in person. Then along came John Bateman – lost, drifting and morally pliable. Except, it went wrong. MI5 was the making of him and then, of course, Russia happened and their precious insider pawn was almost lost. But really, they hadn't lost anything. They didn't gain anything, either. But there was no real harm done. Bateman was just an investment that didn't work out, or so they thought. Meanwhile, Vaughan still had his much more valuable right hand man where he needed him, by his side."

"And, of course, Real Lucas couldn't possibly have known any of this as that would take away all leverage they had over him, as well as freeing him up to tell us about the bomb," Ros added, now feeling her heart lift fully. "They pocketed the cash, although probably chucked some peanuts at our Lucas just to keep him happy, then got away scot-free. If anyone got close to the truth, they could pin all the blame on our Lucas because they had CCTV footage of him leaving that briefcase in the Embassy. All they would have to do is edit it so it didn't look as though the plug had been conveniently pulled before the actual explosion."

Now, Harry also got to his feet and looked his team square in the eye, much as Tom had done moments before. "Thank you, all of you," he said, giving them each a nod. Ros smiled as she noticed the twinkle in his eye, his fighting spirit fully restored. "Now this is enough talk. We need proof, before our Senior Case Officer – a man who sacrificed everything for this country – is laid to waste because of a grave and foolish mistake in his misspent youth."

A flurry of activity followed as the agents rushed back to their desks. Papers were hastily retrieved amidst a buzz of chatter that slowly died away as they resumed their places on the Grid. Only Ros, Tom and Harry remained in the meeting room. For a moment, they sat in silence as they each marshalled their thoughts and feelings. It was only after a minute or two that Harry finally spoke up.

"I keep coming back to the briefcase that Lucas delivered," he said, looking puzzled. "What could possibly have been in it?"

"Nothing. Maybe they just needed him implicated?" Tom put in.

Ros, however, had already given that some thought. "Money. The first half of the payment for the Embassy job. New identity to make a hasty getaway. It could have been a number of things. A dead drop for certain, our friend was waiting in the CCTV room for Lucas to make that delivery – so it was definitely something important."

"What brings us nicely on to the next step – bringing in Vaughan Edwards," said Harry. "Maya might be our best option."

"Harry, I'm really not happy about putting Maya at risk again," Ros put in. "I know you said no, but hear me out on this: let Lucas bring him in." She paused while Harry recoiled. "No, seriously. All he has to do is ring Vaughan from his phone, tell him he has the Albany File and arrange to meet him somewhere we can all be waiting. Put this to Lucas, who is desperate to help us, let him do it on condition that he gets professional help from Tring straight afterwards."

It was going against every one of Harry's instincts, but Ros could see that he was considering it. She raised an eager smile, intending to jolly him along but probably succeeding only in scaring him. "Tring is the best place for him, regardless," Harry pointed out. "You must understand why I cannot have a suicidal officer in the field. He can make the call from his cell. He most certainly cannot come with us-"

"That's all I want," she said. "Well, that and permission to visit him for a little while, just until we're ready to spring Vaughan."

Harry waved a hand, dismissively. "You've done all you can for now," he said. "So, go. Send word as soon as he's made that call."

Before he could change his mind, Ros bid her farewells to Tom and ducked out of the meeting room.

* * *

Lucas had given up trying to rest. He'd given up on a lot of things since he'd confessed all. That morning's interrogation had left him feeling hollow, like someone had cut away a fundamental part of his being. Maybe, he reasoned, it was simply the case that he'd lived the lies for so long that, without them, he could no longer function. Not even the prospect of living out the rest of his days in a Senegalese prison could elicit any feeling in him. Whatever it was that lay around the corner, he resolved to simply endure it, to carry on breathing and cease to think about it.

So, in the interim, he sat back on the bed in his cell and waited for time to pass. Mentally, he could not think of what he'd lost: it was too great to comprehend. It was no good lamenting the fact that he'd met Vaughan Edwards before he met Harry Pearce, or Ros Myers, or Ruth Evershed … or any of the other people who'd made him the man he briefly became. Because he couldn't have become the man he was if he hadn't hit a moral low to begin with. He would have just carried on drifting.

He let his mind wash itself blank by tracking the cracks in the walls of his cell. Previous inhabitants had still found ways of scratching their initials in the plaster and, just for a moment, he made a note to mention it to Harry to get something done about it. Then, he remembered with a fresh, crushing realisation that he was no longer in a position to have a word with Harry about anything. To distract himself from the graffiti, he lay down again and turned to the ceiling, where the strip light fixed to the tiles glared down at him. From that spot, he didn't move again until the key turned in the lock of his cell door.

Lucas swung his legs down off the bed and stood up, hastily tucking his t-shirt into his jeans in an effort to smarten up. Before he could finish, Ros stepped inside nodding her thanks to the Guard, who closed the door after her. For a moment, they both looked at each other. Lucas noticed that she no longer looked furious or disdainful. But she was visibly tired and her face looked pinched, as though she had lost weight since the morning's meeting. He saw a thick file in her hands. Then, he saw the faintest flicker of a smile: whether that was because she relished seeing a man she now despised cast down, or whether it was out of real, lingering affection, he could not tell. Folding his hands behind his back, he remained standing with his gaze directed at his now dirty, bare feet.

Not long after she arrived, the cell door opened again and the Guard entered. Placing a chair in the middle of the room, he offered it to Ros before leaving them alone again. She sat down and gestured for him to do the same, which he did with the only piece of furniture in the cell – the bed. He both dreaded and yearned to hear what Ros had to say, steeling himself to extradited to Senegal that night.

"How did you kill Lucas North?" she asked, sounding quite calm.

Before answering, he cast his mind back to the moment. When he returned from the Embassy, he had walked into his kitchen and found the radio on, reading out the number of fatalities. In a rage, he had pulled it out of the wall, yanking the power cord clean out of the back.

"I strangled him with the power cord from a radio," he replied, honestly. "It all happened so quickly. I threw it around his neck and pulled him back and …" his words trailed off as he struggled to articulate what really happened. "I tried to stop, but he was already dead. I don't know how long… seconds, or minutes. I just don't know. It felt like a second or two but must have been longer because he was dead and-"

"Okay," Ros cut him off and handed him a picture. "Identify the man in the photograph."

Lucas' heart twisted painfully as he looked into the face of his old friend. "Yes," he nodded. "That's him. That's Lucas North. The real Lucas North, I mean."

He would go to his grave with that face haunting him. When he went to pass it back to Ros, he noticed the ghost of a smile on her lips. "That picture was taken following his arrest in Sierra Leone in 1998," she explained. "Arrested, alongside Vaughan Edwards."

"That's impossible," he replied. "He was dead; I saw the body. I saw where he was buried, under the Mangrove trees."

"Did you bury him yourself?" she asked. "Vaughan pressured you into it, didn't he? He threatened to shop you if you didn't, would be my guess."

"No, I didn't bury him," he admitted, dumbfounded by what she was saying. "I was just shown the spot afterwards. Jesus Ros, I can barely remember. Vaughan did it, he told me to stay out of sight because the police would already be looking for me."

He could hear himself becoming shrill with panic, again. The world was shifting beneath his feet and skewing his perceptions again, and so soon after he thought he had it straight in his head. He moved, so that his back was pressed flat against the wall and his knees drawn up under his chin. Seeing his clear distress, Ros backed off and tempered herself. She moved to sit beside him, lifting his head so that they were facing each other.

"We know what you were led to believe," she said. "We don't doubt that. But we're desperately trying to get to the bottom of what happened – what really happened. All we know is that nothing's as it seems," she paused as she handed him a photograph of the Embassy from inside the file before explaining what he was looking at.

"So, you're saying I've been set up right from the start?" was all he could think to ask, after she had brought him to speed.

Ros replied with a nod. There were a number of feelings he thought he ought to have, but really, he only felt doubt and confusion. He couldn't comprehend how it could have been done but, simultaneously, he could see how it was so devastatingly easy. Nor could he let go of the guilt, or the culpability for the bombing. He wasn't off the hook, and nor would he be so foolish as to allow himself to feel it. Numb, he handed the pictures back to Ros, who replaced them in the file. Setting it to one side, she lifted a mobile phone from the pocket of her jacket and handed it to him. Up close, he recognised it as his own; he'd handed it over to Harry prior to his confinement.

"Call Vaughan Edwards now and tell him you have Albany," she instructed him. "Arrange to meet at your house in one hour."

Amidst the swell of conflicting emotions, something like excitement flickered in his chest. Now that there was sufficient doubt cast on his guilt, he dared to hope that he would be allowed to do what he did best: counter terrorism.

"Then I'll come with you-"

"No!" she smacked him down flat, snuffing out that brief flame of hope. "Call him now, or we'll make Maya do it."

Not daring to protest, Lucas dialled Vaughan's number and waited for him to pick up.

"Where the hell have you been?" Vaughan answered angrily, dispensing with even feigned courtesies.

Lucas raised a shadow of his old, cocky grin. "Getting Albany for you, that's where I've been," he answered, just about able to sound his old self. "Meet me round at mine in an hour. I'll have it ready and waiting."

"One hour," Vaughan repeated, before hanging up again.

When the line went dead, he handed the phone straight back to Ros. Blushing slightly, he asked where Maya had gone.

"She's in a safe house," Ros answered. "Then she's leaving the country, I think. You know I can't tell you where she's going. But you won't see her again."

Although it made him sad, he didn't truly expect anything different. Maya would be out of harm's way, and that was all that mattered. The next question that sprang to his lips froze there while he looked into her eyes. He wanted to ask, but feared the answer. But he was sick of being afraid.

"And how are you?" he asked in a timid whisper.

"Don't worry about me," she answered, clearly deflecting the question before changing the subject. "We're moving you out to Tring later. You'll be gone before Vaughan Edwards is brought in."

"Tring," he repeated, unsure as to whether that constituted progress. "Why? I thought I was-"

"You're not in the clear," Ros emphasised. "Not yet, anyway. Look, we're not sending you out there as punishment-"

"That's what it feels like," he protested.

"Christ, Lucas!" she hotly retorted. "Would you rather stay here with nothing to do all day except stare at the walls? Do you not want to go somewhere where you're free to leave your room; have access to professional help, books, telly, other people who're all in the same boat?"

Just this morning, he was expecting to be extradited to Senegal. He calmed himself down to see clearly enough to recognise Tring as the pretty tasty alternative it surely was. After a deep, steadying breath, he thanked her. With that, she got up to leave before remembering something else.

"When you get to Tring," she said, "make the most of it. Tell them about Russia, and everything that happened to you. You were never debriefed, you never got help; this is as much a fall out from that as it is from your misguided youth. If you and I…" her words broke off as she lowered her gaze, concealing the emotion that shone there. He could see her composing herself before she looked back at him. "Just you focus on saving yourself, first."

'_Is there still a 'you and I,_' he wanted to ask. However, he'd already been subjected to more raw, unforgiving truths than he could handle in one day. He decided that that one could go unspoken – it would give him something to grasp on to.

"Will you come to see me?" he asked, plaintively.

Ros was already at the door, from where she looked back at him. "We'll see," she answered.

Recognising that that was as good as she could give, he left it at that.

* * *

Jo Portman was concealed in a van outside Lucas' house. Ros was guarding the back door. Tom was sitting in an armchair, deceptively casual, in the living room; while Harry was stationed behind the living room door. It was silent. Silent to the point of hearing the mice scratching at the skirting boards of the empty sitting room. They were all still, but poised to spring to action the moment their target appeared.

They'd left the front door ajar, enticing Vaughan in like a rat into a trap. Adding insult to inevitable injury, the bait was nothing more than an empty promise. Albany had been secreted away to somewhere known only by Harry and the Home Secretary, William Towers. Back in the field, Harry felt alive again, even if the adrenaline was tempered by the fact that it was five against one as Beth guarded the upstairs along with them. All potential escape routes had been sealed.

Harry's earpiece crackled into life and Jo's voice piped up. Tom and Harry caught each other's eye as the information was relayed.

"Lima Team: visual on Target. He's entering the building now."

Harry opened the sitting room door fully, stepping behind it just as Vaughan's footsteps fell on the lino in the hallway. They approached cautiously, entering the living room.

"John?" his voice called.

Harry slammed the door shut as soon as Vaughan was safely inside and moved to block it. At the same time, Tom Quinn got to his feet, gun trained on their target, who glared at them both, failing to comprehend what was happening.

"Hello, Vaughan," Harry greeted him with a bright smile. "I knew you wouldn't keep us waiting."


	9. The Cuckoo's Nest (Part 1)

**Explanatory Note:** this is part one of a two part segment, setting the scene for the full reveal of what happened it Dakar. I couldn't figure out the best way to do it without a load of dull interrogation scenes, so instead set up the three main players in an interview setting. Part two will be the story told through memories.

**Thank you again for reading and, especially, to those who reviewed this. Thank you!**

* * *

**Chapter Nine: The Cuckoo's Nest (Part 1)**

It had been a long time since Harry Pearce lost count of the interrogations he'd been involved in. Innumerable terrorists, murderers and suspects had formed a sorry procession through the hallowed halls of the Thames House interrogation block. Their faces were a blur; names lost to the mists of time, for the most part. However, as he sat down before Vaughan Edwards in the cramped and non-descript cell, he was certain he would remember this one for the rest of his days.

There at his side was Tom Quinn acting as quiz master, while Ros hovered in the background. Her silence couldn't be any more menacing if she started to punctuate it with gangster-esque knuckle cracking. Their 'guest' barely registered their presence. All interviews started with the same bravado, the same empty defiance; Harry was almost disappointed by Edwards' complete lack of originality. He merely looked through them, eyes unmoving and fixed at some spot on the wall behind their heads. But, he would break. They all break in the end.

Tom laid some papers down on the table, spreading out the evidence to signal the start of the show. Chief among the photographs were the mug shots from Sierra Leone, taken in 1998. Vaughan himself and Dylan Hughes stared up at the ceiling, expressions frozen in black and white, holding up the clapper boards bearing their names and prisoner numbers. Two photos for each man: one in profile and another straight to camera. Tom lined them up, perfectly even.

"These faces ring any bells?" he asked, tone even for now.

They all wore wires, with the exception of Vaughan himself, so others were listening in and recording every word spoken. If Harry knew Edwards at all, he would try to smooth talk his way out of the situation and, he didn't disappoint.

"It's me, of course," replied Vaughan, giving the pictures a very brief look over. "Hughes was a … business associate. I met him the year before, through a mutual contact and arranged to procure supplies to government forces. The region was very unstable at that time-"

"So you thought you'd capitalise on that by arming a militia with money supplied by the war criminal, Charles Taylor," Tom cut over him with information supplied by Ruth that morning. "Blood money in return for blood diamonds, would be my educated guess. But, I digress. Didn't Hughes ever remind you of anyone? Lucas North, perhaps?"

Harry did the honours and retrieved an enlarged image of Lucas North from the Dakar file and set it next to Hughes' image. With only a few years between the photographs, the faces were identical. Harry explained the image further, providing the original picture the enlargement was taken from as back up. It was the one of the three of them: Vaughan, Bateman and North.

"There's a few similarities there, wouldn't you agree Vaughan?" asked Harry, curious as to how Vaughan would wriggle his way out of this one.

"I didn't notice at the time," he replied. "North had been dead for three years and you don't expect it, do you-"

"You didn't recognise Hughes at all?" Tom interjected, eyebrow raised.

"I hardly knew Lucas North," Vaughan protested. "Bateman made sure our paths never crossed-"

"Oh, come on!"

Ros' sudden, angry interjection took them all by surprise. Her heels clicked loudly on the tiled floor as she stalked the short distance to the table and began laying out the evidence from the explosion, giving a furious explanation of events.

"You masterminded the whole thing," she concluded, jabbing a finger at an image of the blast site. "Your sole plan was to plant Bateman in MI5 with the sole intention of activating him when you needed him most. Tell us, Vaughan, what was so important about the Albany file?"

Ros stepped back into the shadows of the cell, watching from the side lines once more. But Harry joined in, articulating his own curiosity about Albany a little more sedately.

"That's what I don't understand," he said. "Admittedly, eight of the last fifteen years your agent has been physically impossible to reach. But that leaves seven long years in which our Lucas North – John Bateman to you – has been left to flourish in MI5. What's so important about the Albany file that you had to blow your Assent into the open so badly?"

"Who wants it?" Tom chimed in. "It must be another Government."

A very brief flicker of fear – or, something like it – clouded Vaughan's features. Harry could only lament that the wires would never pick it up, but it was undeniably there. They had finally had a chink in his armour. Whoever was after Albany was also scaring him. Harry had to wonder whether he even knew what Albany was.

"You know Albany is a fake, don't you?" Ros asked, once again stepping into the pallid light. "Even if you got to whoever wanted it, they would probably have ended up killing you anyway."

Vaughan paled, visibly taken aback. But he soon recovered himself, laughing low. "You don't expect me to believe that, do you?"

Tom rolled his eyes. "Come on Vaughan," he said, goading the man. "A bomb that can pick its own victims. Whatever else you are, you're a realist. You don't live in Star Wars world."

There really was no way out for Vaughan. If he didn't supply the Albany File, he'd be hunted down and killed. If he did supply the Albany File, someone somewhere would have paid a lot of money for something that didn't work, and Vaughan would be hunted down and killed anyway. Harry could tell, just by looking at him, that he didn't even know what Albany did.

"What do you mean by 'picks its own victims'?" he asked, dull-eyed and passive.

Ros sighed. "Albany: a blue print for a bomb that can be programmed to target just one ethnicity, thus eliminating any awkward minorities in the country that possesses it. Hutu Rwandans could wipe out Tutsi Rwandans. The Turkish could wipe out the Armenians. The Chinese could get shot of the Tibetans. The only slight glitch being that it doesn't bloody well work."

Harry allowed himself a smile. "We only kept it as a deterrent," he added. "Now it's been moved to where no one will find it. In fact, the Home Secretary is considering its destruction. You have no hope, Vaughan. You've lost everything so you might as well tell us the truth."

Vaughan was hunched over the table, fixing Harry with a look of deepest loathing. Like it was his personal fault that Albany was a dud designed by a Terkkie with too much time on their hands. Nevertheless, he started talking, at last.

* * *

Back on the Grid, Ruth was trawling through Vaughan's bank accounts. He had huge sums stashed away in accounts on the Cayman Islands and various other tax havens. All of it blood money; all of it gained off the back of war and unrest in distant lands. With a few clicks of her mouse, and it became the Halo Trust's lucky day as the contents of one of Vaughan's off shore accounts was emptied into their coffers. Another went into Save the Children with a little left over for Oxfam and other worthy organisations that Ruth was certain were close to Vaughan's heart.

As soon as the man had not a penny in the world, Ruth spun her seat around to face Beth Bailey. Section D's newest recruit had just got off the phone to one of John Bateman's old friends – a small time drug dealer by the name of Paul Seward. By the tone of their conversation, which had just ended, things didn't go well. Beth was now sat with her head in her hands and sighing intermittently.

"No joy?" asked Ruth.

Beth sighed again, making a point of the futility of her investigations.

"Seward is now a married father of four, with a mortgage to pay and a wife to pacify," she answered. "He's in middle management with a high street bank. How happy do you think he was to be reminded of his misspent youth?"

"Oh dear," Ruth sympathised. "Wouldn't he tell you anything?"

"Well, he did say that he knew John Bateman, that they were friends. But they went their separate ways after arriving in Dakar and the arrest," she said. "Besides that, I really don't think he could be much help anyway."

At that moment, Beth became distracted by the arrival of an internal email and Ruth turned to the next item on her to-do list. Mamadou Bacary: the Security Guard on duty at the British Embassy on the day of the bomb. She double checked the telephone number on the file and lifted the receiver of her desk phone. Just as she dialled nine for an outside line, Beth's voice cut over her thoughts. "Vaughan told Harry the Chinese wanted Albany!"

Ruth lowered the receiver again and turned back to Beth. "Don't you have an Asset in the Chinese Embassy?"

Beth nodded, already retrieving her handbag from under her desk, getting ready to go. "Yeah, Kai. I'm off to see him now, see if knows anything."

"Good luck."

It was late in Senegal, nearing midnight. But Ruth dialled the number she had anyway, hoping for the best. The phone had been ringing for quite some time, but just as the answerphone kicked in, someone picked up. The man's voice was thick with sleep as he greeted her.

"I'm so sorry to wake you, but I'm Ruth Evershed and I urgently need to speak with Mamadou Bacary," Ruth explained in French, the first language of Senegal. "It's about the Embassy bombing."

At the other end of the line, Bacary seemed to wake up quickly. "I am Mr Bacary. Are you British Police?" he asked, flexing some broken English. "Have you a suspect yet? It's been nearly sixteen years and you still haven't caught the people who did this."

His voice was rising in genuine anger as he spoke, but Ruth understood why and kept her own tone even when replying to him.

"Actually yes," she said, ignoring his 'about time'. "I'm not a Policewoman, but I am from the British Intelligence Services. I've read over your statement made to the local Police and you say you were saved from the blast because you went outside for a smoke-"

"Yes, a man came to check my cameras," Bacary confirmed.

"If I sent you a picture of that man, do you think you would remember him?" Ruth asked, already fixing the pretender Lucas North's picture as an email attachment. "I want to email a photo of the suspect to you."

Bacary agreed, spelling out his email address. Already, in the background, Ruth could hear the welcome jingle of a Windows PC chiming as it started up.

"I can't make any promises, Miss Evershed," Bacary explained, going back to French. "All I remember now is a white man with black hair and blue eyes. He was wearing blue overalls and was very hot. Flushed looking and sweaty. Like he'd been working out."

Ruth grinned as she sent the email. Bacary didn't know, but he'd already confirmed, through a description of the clothing, that the pretended Lucas North was the one who stole the CCTV tapes. She explained this to Bacary as they waited for him to access his email, about how they had the stolen tape in their possession. Finally, he accessed his email and downloaded the attachment of the pretender North's image.

"That's him," said Bacary. "As I remember it, that's him."

That was all Ruth needed to know. She ended the call with the promise to keep Mr Bacary updated on their progress. Her next item would also prove interesting. A telephone interview with the faux Lucas North, still calling himself Dylan Hughes and still languishing in prison, now in Liberia. It was, once again, Tariq who found him. However, he would have to wait until the morning, it was long past midnight by the time had finished dealing with Bacary.

* * *

The following morning, Lucas woke up late. For a few moments, he had forgotten where he was and why he was there. But the memory dropped like a stone to the forefront of his mind. The room he'd been given was very neutral. Neutral colours, soft, neutral furnishings and gentle pictures on the walls depicting water colours of English, rural tranquillity. He had the Lake District on his wall. No doubt there was a camera concealed somewhere amongst the blandness, but he didn't have the heart nor inclination to go looking for it.

While he dressed, he opened the blinds onto the gardens of Tring, where the inmates had laboured on therapeutic herb beds and rose bushes. It all looked sadly forlorn under the bleak, mid-winter skies. The lightless day drained the colour from the land. Turning back to the interior, he pulled on his only t shirt over his only pair of jeans and hoped Ros made good on her promise to have more clothes sent on. Once dressed, he felt rather awkward and out of place. Like he'd woken up in someone else's house and couldn't remember how he came to be there. Should he go out and say hello; or should he wait for someone to come and fetch him?

He didn't have long to wait for the answer to his questions. There was a knock on the door and the same, kindly Scottish lady who had welcome him the evening before appeared through an aperture. She smiled at him benignly, bidding him good morning and enquiring as to how he slept – like the dead, as it happened. She was dressed differently, so Lucas surmised that she couldn't have been working all night. Not that it should have mattered to him.

"So, er, what now?" he asked, sitting on a small wooden chair at the desk. It was the sort of bedroom found in care homes for teens.

"Aren't you hungry, Lucas? Don't you want breakfast?"

He was famished, as a matter of fact. He hadn't eaten properly in days and he'd arrived at Tring too late for supper. The Scottish lady, whose name he'd entirely forgotten, led him outside, showing him the way to the dining room that was mercifully empty, late as it was in the morning. Inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief that there was no one he knew in there; something that had caused in him an inordinate amount of worry.

"The thing is," he said, settling at the breakfast table. "I don't know what to do while I'm here. I don't think I'm really cut out for all that 'I am a pin cushion' stuff".

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do," she assured him, sitting in the seat opposite his. He sincerely hoped she wouldn't still be there while he ate. "But we will need to talk, sooner or later."

At that moment, a group of other residents entered the dining room, walking straight through to an adjoining room out the back. Some sort of gathering, or group therapy session. Some of them nodded to Lucas, others saying hello, out of politeness rather than recognition – to Lucas' relief. He thought it would be like walking into a scene from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Drugged out patients functioning on a barely human level, thanks only to the cocktail of meds they had no choice but to take. Thankfully, the reality was somewhat different.

Slowly, he could feel himself begin to relax. When he turned back to the nurse, he managed to raise a pale smile. "I'm afraid there's rather a lot to talk about," he warned her. "Not much of it makes sense, any more. And my name isn't Lucas North, it's John Bateman. I want to start at the beginning, if I may?"

She smiled and nodded. "In your own time, John."

* * *

The team reconvened on the Grid at nine am sharp. Harry, Tom and Ros all prepared for the second round with Vaughan Edwards, who'd been left overnight in a stress position in one of Thames House' 'special' hospitality suits. It wasn't something any of them could claim to be wrestling with their conscience over. Not even the intermittent white noise broadcasts cost them much sleep. All they wanted was the truth and they'd already given the man a chance to speak freely. But when it came to the two Lucas Norths, he remained stubbornly recalcitrant.

When the Guard's escorted Edwards to the interrogation room that morning, he reeked of sweat and looked like he'd died two weeks ago. His skin was pale and clammy, and he looked haggard, like several years had been piled on to his age overnight.

"I want a deal," he said, before anyone else could get a word in. "I want protection from the Chinese."

Ros was careful to keep a straight face. "I don't think you'll be needing it where you're going."

"That can be arranged," Harry said, as though Ros hadn't spoken. "But we need the truth. Who is Dylan Hughes or Lucas North or whatever his real name is? How was his death faked and how did John Bateman come to be so heavily implicated?"

Silence followed, broken only by Tom Quinn leaning to the side to whisper in Ros' ear that Beth's asset had already confirmed China's involvement. They had even sent agents over to collect Albany and dispose of their Lucas North and Maya Lahan, should it all have gone pear shaped. With that, all eyes turned back to Vaughan, who returned their looks with a hollowed out expression.

"The original idea was to arrange for Bateman to be at the Embassy at the time of the explosion, with this briefcase. It would make him look like the bomber and would suit our purposes. Then, we had a much better idea. Bear with me, and I'll tell you all about it."

* * *

Ruth glanced over the report Tariq had given to her, while he hovered in the background. She turned to him and smiled. "You've done well, Tariq," she assured him, feeling her spirits lift at the sight of his proud smile. "How did you find him, again?"

Finally, Tariq sat down and leaned forwards, gesticulating as he spoke in his excitement. "So, we know that Dylan Hughes, Lucas North or whoever he is, was supplying weapons to Sierra Leone's militia, using money taken from the Liberian regime. By that, I mean Charles Taylor and he's currently on trial for crimes against humanity," he explained. "Well, it turns out that faux Lucas North was caught in the fall out from the Liberian peace process and he was extradited from Sierra Leone to Liberia to face justice there. Vaughan Edwards only escaped because he was so far down the line he couldn't be implicated that heavily."

Ruth turned back to the report, noticing that Vaughan had been released early from prison. She felt her optimism swell. Chances are, there would be bad blood between the two of them now. Something she could work with when she made the all-important phone call. Thanking Tariq again, she closed the file and went over to one of the private rooms where she could make the call in peace.

She was rather nervous as she called the Liberian prison where Hughes/North was being held. Especially since they were all still uncertain about his real identity. But, he had been using aliases for so long, he had probably forgotten who he really was. Less still did it actually matter, now that he was holed up in Liberia. Still, the Senegalese would be interested to know what he had to say.

When she dialled the number, the call was answered almost immediately by an official sounding lady. She spoke in crisp, accented English. "Miss Evershed, we've been expecting your call."

She was put on hold while Hughes was fetched from his cell. Impatiently, Ruth drummed her fingers on the desk and glanced up at the walls of the cubicle she was in, finding it devoid of distraction. After a good fifteen minutes of Greenfingers being played on repeat, a man's voice suddenly sounded out of the blue, taking her by surprise.

"So, this is MI5 calling?" he asked, laughing low. "I wondered how long it'd take you."

Ruth tried to place his accent, without success. If he was a UK citizen originally, he had lost his regional accent, as well as his real identity. Either way, he didn't sound in the least bit surprised. More like he'd been waiting his whole life for this call. She ignored his opening shot and ploughed on with an explanation of how they came to have Vaughan Edwards in their custody and, as she guessed, bad blood had blossomed since Vaughan's release from Sierra Leone. She had to think fast about how to exploit it.

"You tell me the absolute truth about what happened in Dakar," she said, "and we'll have Edwards answer for all his crimes. Then, I'll see how I can help you. No promises, but your life could get a lot easier, so long as I get the full story."

There was a brief pause at the other end of the line, broken only by a hollow laugh. "Save yourself the trouble, love," he said. "But, I can tell you a thing or two about Vaughan Edwards and that poor sap he set up."


	10. The Cuckoo's Nest (Part 2)

**Explanatory Note: **Instead of having a load of dull, repetitive interview scenes, I decided to tell my version of the Dakar story through actual memory/flashback scenes. The John Bate POV is coming from Lucas talking to the nurse at Tring. The Lucas North/Hughes POV from the telephone interview with Ruth (as detailed in part one). Sorry it's so complicated!

* * *

**The Cuckoo's Nest (Part 2)**

**DAKAR 1995  
**

Inside the casino, it looked like a gaudy, glittering cattle shed. Human beings were herded from table to table, following the croupier's calls to throw fistfuls of money at the blackjack and roulette. They may as well flush it down the toilet, where it could be washed up on the rancid Dakar beaches and serve a better purpose in funding the beggars who scavenged the shoreline for scraps to sell. That was Senegal: the wealthy elite rubbing shoulders with the ones who could scarce afford to scrape through the day. There was no middle ground; no middle way. You had it all, or you had nothing at all.

At that moment in time, however, Lucas North didn't have time to dwell on society's failings. He hauled in another bumper crop of bets and spun the roulette wheel again. Whoever won or lost was of no consequence to him and he barely paid attention to the outcome. But while he went through the motions again, he looked sidelong at his colleague and fellow Englishman, John Bateman. John was finishing his shift early and, at that moment, was deep in conversation with Vaughan Edwards, standing at the bar. A mobile phone was exchanged, from Vaughan to John in a discreet sleight of hand. Frowning in consternation, he finished the current rounds just as John vanished through the doors, leaving Vaughan in the company of three women he could not name.

Twenty minutes later, when he was finally able to get a break, Lucas crossed the room to where Vaughan was still in conversation with the ladies. No doubt one, if not all three, would end up back at his apartment later. Spurred on by the fact that time was clearly limited, Lucas placed a hand on Vaughan's elbow, drawing him aside.

"Excuse me, Ladies," he said, placing his glass on the bar. "I'll be five minutes. Try not to miss me!"

He winked at a brunette – clearly the chosen one – and pushed himself away from the bar as he followed Lucas outside.

Away from the oppressive heat inside, out from under the feet of the hordes of punters, Lucas was able to breathe freely again. While he inhaled the cool, night air he took in the view over the city and listened to the distant waters lapping the coast. The smell of the nearby rubbish dumps was carried on the breeze, hitting the back of his throat as he breathed. Only the faint smell of the Mangrove trees relieved the acid bite of city's detritus.

"I saw you talking to Bateman, earlier," said Lucas, as they walked the small lawns at the front of the casino. "What's he been told?"

"Almost nothing, but I'll be in tomorrow morning to tell him more," Vaughan replied. "Nice touch, by the way."

"What?" he asked, turning to look at Vaughan.

"You warned him off me, and it's only served to make him even more eager to please," explained Vaughan. "I suspect you knew that would happen."

Lucas laughed. "You know what people are like," he said. "Put someone alone in a room with a big red button with a sign saying 'do not press', you guarantee what'll happen. The devil makes work, Vaughan," he added, leaving the old adage incomplete.

Once they were at the gates of the casino, well away from the building itself, Vaughan stopped and turned to face Lucas.

"Are you clear on everything?" he asked. "I won't see you again before tomorrow and you need to know exactly what to do and when."

After a moment's consideration, Lucas nodded. "Yes, I think so," he finally replied. "More to the point, is everything in place for afterwards?"

Vaughan smiled. "All taken care of, my friend, everything you need will be in that suitcase," he assured him. "Once it's done, go back to the safe house and get changed into your work uniform. I've left a spare one in the master bedroom. I'll call you as soon as Bateman's been prepared. Then come back to the flat as if you'd just finished a shift. If Bateman bottles it, I'll do what needs to be done. Have you got keys to the safe house?"

"I have. Have you got the sedatives?" asked Lucas.

"Right here."

Instinctively, Lucas glanced down at the pocket of Vaughan's tuxedo. The other man's watch glinted in the moonlight as he withdrew a small vial, inside which was a capsule no bigger than a peanut. It hardly looked equal to the task. "Hold it in your mouth, it won't melt. You need to bite down on it. You'll be out in seconds flat, so let him rough you up a bit first."

Lucas nodded. "I still wish it was you doing it and not him. What if he decides to stab me?"

"I will be there and I won't let him. You'll wake up in the safe house, but I'll have to throw you in the boot to get you there. Sorry about that," Vaughan explained, genuinely apologetic for the younger man's less than five star travel arrangements. "By the way, don't forget that suitcase you're picking up from the Embassy. It's important."

Lucas nodded. It was as well Lucas had worked with Vaughan before. Trust was everything in a job such as the one they were doing tomorrow. They were both being paid millions for it, though. They had nothing to lose from selling each other out. Concluding their meeting by briefly grasping each other's hand, they parted and returned to the casino before Lucas' absence was noticed.

* * *

The world swam slowly into view as John Bateman returned to consciousness. He rolled over in bed and squinted against the marauding sunlight as he made the first effort at opening his eyes. After a groan, he tried again; his clearing gaze falling on a framed photograph of Maya, beer bottle in hand and grinning brightly. That photo was taken at a barbeque, and he found himself smiling at the memory, as well as at the knowledge that he would soon be home again. He would have enough money to rent a small flat for two and fund the wedding they had both been dreaming of – thanks to Vaughan.

Once out of bed, he dressed hurriedly and made his way into the kitchen. The air conditioning was broken again, making the whole flat hot and stuffy. Reaching into the fridge, he withdrew a bottle of mineral water and paused as footsteps landed on the linoleum, directly behind him. He turned slowly to find Vaughan Edwards regarding him closely from the archway that divided the kitchen from the sitting room.

"You scared me!" said, John, breathing a sigh of relief.

He grabbed another bottle of water and handed it to Vaughan, who thanked him. As they sat at the small kitchen table. Vaughan was polite enough to ignore the dirty dishes stacked in the sink, and the unwashed laundry heaped by the washer.

"I need you to pick up a suitcase from the Somali Embassy and deliver it to the British Embassy. It'll be waiting for you at reception," Vaughan instructed. "Leave it on the second floor, outside the Ambassador's office. When you've done that call me on the mobile I gave you last night, as soon as you're away from the building. Let it ring three times, then hang up."

John knew not to ask too many questions, but that didn't stop them swarming into his head. But, if even he did chance his arm and ask, he would be fed half-truths and lies in response. All he wanted was the money, a ticket home and his new passport, which would be ready in next few days. It was just one more job, a little extra to tide him over when he got home to Maya.

"Sure," he answered. "You'll meet me back here afterwards?"

Vaughan gave a nod as he swallowed the water John handed him when he first came in. When he finished, he set the bottle aside and fixed John with a calculating look.

"When you get back to England, I might have some more work to put your way," he said, before enigmatically adding: "Something a bit more long term."

For the first time in their relationship, John experienced a sliver of doubt. He had hoped to walk away and never see Vaughan again. "What?"

Having dangled the carrot before his nose, Vaughan rose to leave. "Let's see how today goes and we'll talk about it later," he said. "I have to go."

John saw him out and made a point of locking the door after he'd gone. Lucas hated the man and would be furious if he had come home and found him there.

* * *

Lucas donned the maintenance overalls that Vaughan had provided him with the night before, and slipped into the basement of the British Embassy. He found the boiler room easily enough, and no one gave him any bother. As with all menial workers, the officials swarming about the Embassy simply looked right through him. It was a shame the same could not be said of the security cameras, however. But, Lucas resolved to deal with them later seeing as there were none in the actual boiler room.

Once there, he searched through his toolkit for a torch and shone the narrow beam along the network of pipes that were fixed to the ceiling. It was damp, hot and humid in the enclosed space. Dust hung heavily in the air and he was sweating after just five minutes. Wherever he fixed the semtex, it would have to out of the way and secure. Finally, he chose a spot where two water pipes joined, in the far corner of the room. He worked with the torch clenched between his teeth, freeing up both hands to set the device in place, complete with detonator. He didn't bother with the timer as Vaughan would detonate remotely, as soon as he got the call from Bateman.

Another twenty minutes passed, and the bomb was in place. Lucas, out of force of habit, cleaned up after himself, despite the fact that the bomb would level the entire building. The act brought an ironic smile to his face as he left the stuffy boiler room. He made his way back upstairs to the ground floor, blinking as he re-emerged into the bright sunshine and slipped into the nearest gent's toilet to splash some water on his damp, dirty face before heading up to the third floor. Lucas followed the signs that led him to the Security Guard's office and knocked firmly before poking his head around the door.

"All right, mate," he greeted the Security man cordially. "I've come to check the cameras."

The Guard, a local man aged about forty, looked back at him nonplussed. Lucas reproached himself and translated his instructions into French, with an apology tacked on. Without giving it much thought, the Security Guard shrugged and reached for a packet of cigarettes before pushing past Lucas, leaving him to it. As he passed, Lucas caught the name on the man's security pass: Mamadou Bacary. He thanked him by name as he disappeared through the door. He did think about killing the man, but there was no opportunity and the bomb would, more than likely, do the job for him. It was not perfect, but Lucas had to let it go.

Once he was alone, Lucas watched over the screens, trying to divide his attention equally between all four of them. It was almost three pm before he spotted John Bateman entering the building, wearing a borrowed linen suit that didn't quite fit him. It made him standout, and Lucas despaired of the man who was meant to be taking his place in MI5. However, that wouldn't be his problem. He merely watched until Lucas began to climb the stairs and, with only minutes left to get that suitcase and leave the building, he knocked off the power to the cameras and ejected the tape from the machine. Bomb or no, he wouldn't want to leave them lying around, just on the off chance.

He slotted the VHS tape into the pocket of his overalls and made his way to the second floor. Bateman had left the suitcase next to a bench, just outside the Ambassador's office as Vaughan said he would. He lifted the suitcase and peered over the bannister just as John was heading for the same doors he walked through not one minute ago. With the suitcase clutched to his chest, Lucas made for the fire escape at the rear of the building, breaking into a sprint as soon as he was through the door.

* * *

As with all jobs Vaughan sent him on, John was left feeling jittery and nervous as he exited the Embassy. He paused outside to catch his breath and steady his heart rate, just for a minute. Then, he walked casually away, to the front gates and stopped by the perimeter railings. He fished for the mobile phone in the inside pocket and fumbled through the menu. He had only used one a few times before and was still getting used to the interface, but soon found the number he had to call. It rang three times and then he hung up, just as Vaughan instructed.

As he went to walk away again, the force of the blast threw him forwards and he stumbled, coming to rest behind an old car that sheltered him from the worst of the explosion. But the windows were blown in, showering him in fragments of splintered glass. Dazed, he climbed stiffly to his feet and looked back at the Embassy through a cloud of swirling dust and smoke. For what felt like a long time, John couldn't do anything except watch as the survivors slowly began to process what had just happened. Their screams and cries filled the terrible silence, soon joined by the wail of alarms from inside the building.

Panic soon began to broil in his chest as he realised what he had done. Bile rose in his throat and he vomited violently over the side of the car that sheltered him from the blast.

* * *

Lucas North was already out in the street by the time the bomb detonated. He crashed to a halt as the sound of the blast echoed through the streets and looked back over his shoulder, still clutching the suitcase to his chest. The dust cloud almost blotted out the sun. Everyone around him had done the same, before they all looked to each other in bewilderment. After a minute, he slinked away down a side street that led to the estuary, lined with Mangrove trees. Vaughan's newly acquired safe house was there and he needed to get changed and freshen up before returning to the apartment he and John shared.

As soon as he stepped through the doors, he pulled off the overalls and stuffed them into a bin liner. He would burn them later, before he left Senegal for good. Then, he checked the suitcase that John had delivered to the Embassy. Inside was one thousand dollars, all used bank notes. There were visas, a new driver's license and a passport in the name of Dylan Hughes. Lucas smiled as he turned it all over in his hands, eventually finding the sedatives he'd be needing – which he pocketed straight away.

Satisfied that everything was in place, he deposited the security video inside it, closed the lid of the suitcase and placed it in a nearby cupboard for safe keeping. Once he'd washed again, he left the apartment and headed back out into the street. By now, the emergency services were screaming through the streets of Dakar, on their way to and from the site of the explosion. He set off at a casual pace, ready to go get himself killed.

* * *

"What the fuck did you just make me do?"

John was furious by the time he returned to the flat and found Vaughan Edwards sat on his sofa. He rounded on the other man as soon as he set foot through the door, not caring whether Lucas was back or not. Vaughan got straight to his feet and pinned John's arms to his sides in restraint. The sound of the radio drifted in from the kitchen, a local news report reading out the latest fatalities.

"I didn't make you do anything," he retorted. "We need to get out of here, now!"

John managed to shrug Vaughan off him, but he had calmed enough to not try and attack him again. But his heartbeat was still racing and his hands shook as he ran one through his hair. For what it was worth, they were both in it together, whatever they'd done. Unable to bear the sound of the radio anymore, John pulled the cord clean out of the wall, causing the electricity to crackle ominously.

"How am I supposed to get out of here?" he demanded to know. "My passport won't be ready for days. I'm fucked, Vaughan. You know I am and now you're going to go swanning off back to the UK as though nothing happened. And I'll be left here, to take the fall. I never should have listened-"

"Shut up!" Vaughan snapped, cutting him off and shaking him by the shoulders. "You need to get a passport."

"Did you know what would happen?" he asked, voice tremulous. "Did you know it was a bomb?"

For a moment. Vaughan made no reply. His frown deepened, the words seemed caught in his throat. Eventually, he shook his head. "All I knew was that the package had to get from the Somalis to the Brits. That was all. We're so far down the chain, we'll never be linked. I swear! But you need a passport now."

John pulled away from Vaughan, trying to think. "I could borrow Lucas'," he suggested, desperately, despite their physical differences. "I don't think they'll look too closely."

They resembled each other, but they weren't twins. They weren't even related. However, Vaughan turned John round, to face him again.

"I can doctor it myself," he said, keeping his voice low.

"We can't do that!" Lucas cried back, panicking again. "He's joining MI5, for fuck's sake. He's not just going to hand his passport over so you can fuck it up and send it back a week later!"

His words fell into a tense silence as they both fixed each other with hard looks. Slowly, Vaughan paced around John, looking him up and down as he went. John tried to second guess what he was thinking, but as always, he failed. The other man was inscrutable.

"How many people have you killed today, John?" Vaughan eventually asked, his voice dangerously low. "The number's rising all the time."

John was hit by a fresh wave of nausea as he glanced over at the radio, now lying broken on the kitchen floor, its cord pulled clean from the back. How many people did it say on the news? He'd forced it from memory already. But there would be more. There would be some who lingered for days, others dead at the scene. All because of him. He felt his world implode. He would die here, himself.

"They'll kill me," he said, thinking aloud more than anything. He'd be left to rot in some overcrowded, hell hole of a prison where he would live out his days. Or, more likely, be killed while the guards looked the other way. He deserved it. He knew he deserved it, and more beside, but that didn't stop his survival instincts from kicking in. Then, he remembered, Senegal still had the death penalty. He would be hanged for his crimes before anyone could do anything. Possibly even in public, like some medieval beheading before a jeering crowd.

"What's one more death, John?" asked Vaughan. "Just one more, and you can be free forever."

He couldn't bring himself to countenance it. Instead, he found himself clinging to farfetched ideas, small and unlikely rays of hope that could mean he wouldn't have to do the terrible thing that Vaughan was implying. "Surely, if I stay hidden here for a few days, my own passport will-"

"No!" Vaughan cut him off. "A boat leaves tonight. I'll be on it, with or without you. Do you think you can fend for yourself here, alone? Do you think our budding MI5 Officer will take long to work out the truth?" Vaughan left the question hanging between them.

Numbness spread throughout John's entire body. It really was as bleak and stark as that. Unable to process any more, he turned away dumbly and walked towards the bathroom. He needed to try and think, but had been backed so far into a corner there was now only one way out. He had one chance, and he knew he had to take it.

* * *

Lucas checked his watch. He'd whiled away the time by walking along the estuary near the safe house and now, it was almost six thirty. He paused at the gate of the flat, noting the drawn curtains and the silence from within. Normally, John would be playing music at a positively anti-social volume, or be in there with friends, crowded around a football match on TV. That evening, in light of what had occurred, the silence was eerie. He fit his key in the front door and opened up, peering into the darkened hallway.

It was still stiflingly hot inside, thanks to the stored heat of the day and the broken air conditioning. He closed the door, slamming it slightly with the intention of bringing John out, which it did. His head appeared from around his bedroom door. "You're late," he said.

"I know," replied Lucas. "It was the bomb; I was cut off by the security cordons. What're you doing?"

"Nothing," said John, sounding defensive.

Lucas crossed to the kitchen and poured himself a whiskey from a bottle left on a rack by the sink. He needed it, for what he was about to induce John to do to him.

"Fourteen dead," said Lucas, sitting at the kitchen table with his drink, "and the body count set to rise, last I heard."

John came over to join him at the table. He looked pale and sick, which was no surprise. "I need to go," he said, looking at Lucas through tear stained eyes. "I need to get out of here, now."

Lucas frowned at John from over the rim of his glass as he downed the measure in one. "Why?" he asked, taking a calculated risk. "Did you see something at the Embassy today?"

He wanted it to be known that he had seen him there. For the time being, he left it at that, letting the shock sink into Bateman's expression. Meanwhile, he got up and went over to the sink to rinse his glass. He let the cool water wash over his shaking hands as he continued: "I was passing on my way to the bank, when I saw you going in. That suit didn't fit you, by the way. What were you doing at the Embassy?"

He had his back turned on John, but heard him rise from his seat, grating against the sound of the chair legs scraping over the dirty lino. Looking to one side, he could see a broken radio on the floor, where it had been knocked over and the power cord had been pulled out. Lucas smiled and reached into his breast pocket for the sedative, popping it into his mouth like chewing gum. He held it under his tongue.

"Is Vaughan involved-"

He didn't get a chance to finish the question before the cord of the radio was wrapped around his throat and he was being dragged backwards. He could easily have elbowed John in the stomach and thrown him over his shoulder, but instead he feigned a panic and gripped at the cord around his throat with both hands. In very real pain, his eyes watered as he turned to look at the bedroom door. Vaughan was there, standing over them both as he champed down on the sedative. He was pulled under a deep, dark tide within seconds.

John leapt back from the body of Lucas North as soon as he fell limp in his arms. He hadn't expected it to be so quick; he couldn't believe he had actually done it. He had wanted to back out, to let him go before it was too late. But now the man lay dead at his feet on the kitchen floor. But, before he could dwell on it for too long, Vaughan pushed a set of keys into John's hands.

"Bring my car round the front, now," he instructed.

For a moment, he simply looked back at Vaughan in amazement and rooted to the spot.

"We can't leave him here!" Vaughan snapped at him. "Get my bloody car now!"

Eager to get away from the scene of the crime, John backed out of the room and ran through the small hallway. Once outside, he afforded himself a minute to catch his breath and marshal his thoughts. The bombing had not been a premeditated act, no matter how it looked. But the murder of Lucas North was. For the first time, he could feel whatever sense of humanity he had left slipping irrevocably away from him. He wanted to cry, to scream and shout. But there was no time and all that would happen was that he'd be hanged. However, one way or another, he knew he would one pay the price for what he'd done.

With that thought still kicking him in the gut, he ran for Vaughan's car and brought it round the side of the flat, down a narrow side street beyond the kitchen door. He almost crashed it into a low wall, such were his scattered nerves. Once he'd opened the boot of the car, he ran back in to the flat via the kitchen door. Vaughan had Lucas' body already bundled up in bed sheets, waiting by the door and sweating profusely with the effort. It was already dusk outside, so that gave them limited cover. Not that anyone would be watching anyway, not in this neighbourhood.

"Get his legs," Vaughan instructed. "Help me, for Christ's sake."

John did as he was told and helped bundle the body into the boot, before Vaughan himself drove off with it without inviting him along. He would ask later, when he got back. In the meantime, he went back in the kitchen and poured himself a double measure of whiskey, in the same glass Lucas had used. He downed it one, then poured himself another – a process he repeated until he was sick again.

When Vaughan returned, he had Lucas North's passport in his pocket, ready to start doctoring it. For a long time, he didn't say anything. He smelled of damp earth and sweat, the dirt clinging to his fingernails. John could see it as he set about swapping the pictures in the passport. The process was easy enough, given that John had spare picture left over from his real passport application.

When Vaughan did speak again, he said nothing about what had occurred.

"Lucas had joined MI5," he said. "All he had left were the face to face interviews."

"So?" asked John, not seeing the path that Vaughan was leading him down.

"So, I was thinking," Vaughan replied. "If you want to make up for what you did today, in planting that bomb, you could join in his place. Do the good work he was always meant to do yourself."

At first, the idea sickened John. Simultaneously, however, he could see the sense in it. Besides, it would never work. They would find out and catch him, learn what he did and he would face justice for his crimes in Britain. Senegal has the death penalty, so they would not be allowed to extradite him to face justice here. He would go to prison and still pay the debt he owed to humanity, except on British terms, not Senegalese. Then, if it did work, he would still be paying the debt by working to protect people from … from people like him. He liked to think it was the whiskey that made him agree so readily, despite feeling utterly repelled.

* * *

It was fully dark by the time Lucas North woke up where he'd been placed, on the stripped bed in the safe house. His mouth tasted like something had pissed in it and he had to spit out the plastic remains of the sedative casing he'd chewed on a few hours before hand. A quick glance in the mirror showed him that he had sustained a streak of purple bruising where Bateman had tried to strangle him, but nothing more. Or, nothing beside the thick head that came with being drugged. Clumsily, he walked over to the window, overlooking the estuary where the Mangrove trees grew by the water's edge. Vaughan was still out there, digging away, burying a bundle of sheets and the overalls he – Lucas – had been wearing earlier that day to plant the bomb. No doubt, Bateman would be shown the grave later, to prove that he really had been buried.

Lucas withdrew from the window. He couldn't risk being seen. The man who blew up the Embassy was dead, as far as he was concerned. He was no longer that person; he really was being buried under the Mangrove trees. For him, it was as easy as that: a snake shedding its skin. Luckily, Lucas North had no family. Not least because the real Lucas North was already dead – the name was stolen from the tomb of a still born baby who died the same year he was born. They were always the easiest identities to steal, no one was looking for them and no one expected them. Now, he was passing the baton on to John Bateman. He almost felt sorry for the poor, lost bastard.

His new identity, Dylan Hughes, was sitting on a bedside table along with the money and documentation he would be needing to validate his new identity. He would be gone from here as soon as Vaughan came back to tell him the coast is clear. Then it would all be over, for him at least.

A few hours ticked by, minutes dragging on in the dark silence of the safe house, before the front door opened and Vaughan Edwards stood grinning at him from the living room. The man formerly known as Lucas North laughed. "You scare the shit of me, Vaughan," he said, still wildly amused.


	11. Hunky Dory

**Author's Note:** thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: Hunky Dory**

**"You can colour my life; until it fits with your own" (Oasis/Rain, "Colour My Life")**

A small breeze troubled the lawn in the gardens of Tring. Ros found Lucas sat on a bench overlooking a rose bed and water feature, a fountain gurgling dirty green water amongst bare rose bushes. It was hardly an inspiring sight, but she supposed it was the fresh air that lured him from the warmth of the old, former stately home. He was shivering and alone, with a tartan blanket draped over his knees, like a forgotten veteran. A day's growth of stubble shadowed his jawline and a small flask of tea was cradled in his hands. He didn't notice her and kept his eyes trained on the gardens. Lost in his thoughts – whatever, wherever, they were.

She walked slowly along the stone path to where he was and sat down beside him. So lost in his thoughts, Lucas didn't turn to look at her or notice her arrival at all. For one strange minute, they both looked at the water fountain. This close up, she could see it was just rocks haphazardly piled so as to cause a waterfall effect. No doubt, built by the patients themselves.

"I prefer pissing cherubs myself," she remarked, sotto voce and tilting towards him.

"Nah. They should get one of those bronze mermaids that squirt the water out their tits. Keep it classy," he rejoined, quickly recovering from the shock of her sudden appearance.

Ros jerked her head back, towards Tring. "Have they got a suggestions box in there? You should submit that."

Finally, he turned to look at her. Inwardly, she breathed a sigh of relief to see the glitter back in his bright blue eyes. The old Lucas slowly resurfacing before her very eyes. "I already have. They said it was tacky," he smirked. "Can you believe that?"

She clicked her tongue, tutting disapprovingly. "Probably for the best," she said, cautiously, "we can't have you nutjobs getting all excited. It'd be Armageddon."

Lucas sniggered loudly, stifling the sound on his sleeve. For the first time, Ros realised he was still in his dressing gown; slippered feet protruded from under the tartan blanket. She had forgotten to bring his spare clothes. It was just as well he was going anywhere. After a second, he composed himself.

"Thank you for coming," he said, turning serious. "I didn't know whether you would or not."

"Neither did I," she answered, honestly. "But once the truth came out… about the set up and how far it went. How could I not?"

Lucas dropped his gaze, turning instead to the potted herbs growing beside a nearby greenhouse. She could tell he was struggling to find the right words to say, but did not know whether he'd appreciate the prompting, or wanted to be left to work it all out for himself. Lucas breathed deeply and closed his eyes, sagging as though he were suddenly exhausted.

"How can I show my face on the Grid again, anyway? I just feel so stupid," he said, dropping his voice. "So … used. If I had just spoken up sooner-"

"Life's full of what-ifs, even for the best of us," Ros cut over him. "It's all out in the open now and that's the main thing. You can front this out and you know you can."

She looked over at him, watching his brow crease into a sudden frown. He was struggling to find the right words again. But then, she supposed, it would be quite some time before he could begin to comprehend the depth of the betrayal. How long would it take to pick up the pieces after almost twenty years of living with a burden of guilt few could imagine? Ros couldn't put an estimate on that.

"What's going to happen now?" he finally asked. "What will become of Maya and Vaughan and…" the final name, that of the other Lucas North, was left unspoken.

"Maya's left the country to work abroad," she answered, stiffly. "I can't disclose where she's gone-"

"Of course," he cut in. "I would never ask you to. I just needed to know that she's safe."

"She is," Ros assured him. "Vaughan has been sent packing to Senegal to answer for the bombing he perpetrated. The other, well, Ruth might try to get some kind of concession from the Liberians for him, but he's no right to it. He'll more than likely face extra charges, too."

"What about me?" he asked, looking back at her.

Now he reached the crux of the matter. He wanted more than anything to come back to MI5, it was written clearly in his expression, despite his shame. But he was bracing himself for the worst, keeping his enthusiasm firmly in check. Sadly, she could give him no final, definitive answer.

"Harry will come to see you about that, I suspect," she replied. "But I doubt he'd be keeping you here unless he meant to bring you back into the team."

"But I still tried to kill a man," he confessed, kneading at a knot of tension between his eyes. "I can't see any way around that."

"I think you're being too hard on yourself," replied Ros. "Under those circumstances, at that age and in that country, what would any of us have done?"

"Manned up and confessed?" he suggested with a dry laugh.

"You were a kid; you panicked and you tried to back out," she pointed out, rather tersely. "It's the lies about your identity that will set you back. Harry will have to cover it up, you know. You will have to carry on being Lucas North. Even so, you won't be getting my job any time soon."

"I'll be lucky if I still have a job at all," he retorted. "Even luckier, if I still have you."

Ros turned away, unwilling to subject herself to the pressure of looking into those eyes and read the plaintive longing there. The events of the last few weeks had shaken her and there was no use in pretending everything was just hunky-dory, as though it was all just a minor misunderstanding. The fact was, Lucas had lied to her for years, at a time when she needed him to be honest the most. He had gone running into the arms of a former lover, instead of coming to her for help and it still stung. She still smarted from the emotional blow. Things were not the same and, perhaps, they never would be again. By the same token, the mere fact that she was there: sat on a cold stone bench, under the cold, grey skies outside Tring, was evidence of her inability to walk away completely. She didn't want to walk away, either. On the contrary, she had to.

Slowly, she turned to look back at him. "Yes, you would be lucky," she agreed. She leaned over and grazed a chaste kiss against his cheek, skin scratching against stubble. "Good bye, Lucas," she added, with an air of finality. Tears welled in her eyes and she didn't bother trying to disguise them. She loved him still, but that gel that bound them together had gone. Was it trust? It felt more than mere 'trust' but she could not give it voice, not yet.

Lucas blinked away his own unshed tears, looking away quickly, back at the water feature. The waters carried on gurgling into the silence as Ros got to her feet.

"I understand," he said, his voice hoarse. When he looked up at her, he managed a weak smile. "Goodbye, Ros."

She took one last look in his eyes, memorising the way they looked. After a deep breath, she steadied herself and walked away.

* * *

Ruth nestled her face in the hollow of Harry's shoulder, resting the flat of her hand against his breast. From beneath the slender fabric of his shirt, she could feel the reassuring thud and jump of his heart. They were in his house, on his sofa. Nicely furnished, but without fuss or frill. Functional and strangely cold. He emitted a contented sigh as his free hand reached for the hot whiskey at his side. She rolled her eyes to see up at his face as he sipped appreciatively at the gold, steaming liquid.

"When we're married, we'll have to live in my house," she pointed out.

Harry frowned. "Why's that?"

"It's got character-"

"It's got Beth Bailey, too!" he retorted.

Her heart sank as she settled her head back down, pulling a face.

"We'll think of something," she said, reaching a compromise of finding somewhere entirely new. "Somewhere where we can make a whole new start."

Above her, Harry smiled appreciatively and planted a kiss on her head. "A far better option," he concurred. "What about May?"

Ruth frowned. "May?"

"For the wedding!" he laughed. "Or had you forgotten that small detail?"

"Oh! That!" she retorted, feigning surprise. She lifted her head again so she could see into his eyes, properly. "It would be perfect."

For a moment, they let themselves lapse into a companionable silence. Ruth closed her eyes, preparing to let herself slip into a nap as they both reclined on the plush sofa. Since the resolution of the awful Lucas North business, they had allowed themselves the luxury of a weekend to themselves. One whole Saturday and one whole Sunday during which they could simply be together. Beyond the rehabilitation of their Lucas North, work had featured in not one of their conversations. As far as they were concerned, the matter was settled: their Lucas is the only Lucas and the sooner he was well enough to return to work, the better.

"Oh, I forgot to mention," said Harry, giving her shoulders a squeeze. "I went to make sure that Malcolm and his mother were settled back in at their house. He agreed to be my Best Man."

"Excellent," replied Ruth. "I spoke to Christine and Tom. They'll be there and they agreed to let little Daisy act as Bridesmaid. Jo Portman would probably have permanently neutralised any rivals for the post of Maid of Honour."

Harry chuckled, downing the rest of his drink.

"Ros can be the Bouncer," he half-joked. "Then everything is settled, just about. There's just one more man left to speak to."

Lucas. Their Lucas; the only Lucas. He didn't say it, but Ruth knew right away who he meant. It had been three weeks since he was admitted to Tring, a week since Ros had dropped by to end their relationship and long past the time when she and Harry should have gone to visit him. Although she felt guilty about it, Harry insisted –and she ultimately agreed – that they all needed time to think things through.

"Monday?" she suggested.

Harry pondered it for a moment. "Should be fine, not much happening. Even terrorists hate Mondays."

* * *

There was never any hurry in Tring. Lucas took advantage of the fact by taking his time over breakfast – normally, the most frantic part of the day as he inevitably woke up late and had to race to work. That, and his lack of appetite compelled him to take things slowly. He gnawed at a corner of cold toast, almost gagging on the rich butter. If he felt like it, he would strike up conversation with one of the other patients. And he had to call them 'patients'; he'd been scolded for referring to them as 'inmates'. But, since his talk with Ros, he hadn't much fancied the company.

"Where is he? He's not in the garden burning incense and hugging those trees, is he?"

A familiar, cynical voice drifted in from outside. For the first time in days, Lucas smiled a natural smile. It grew as another familiar voice rebuked the first.

"Harry! Really!"

Lucas pushed his plate of cold toast away and got up, ready to receive his visitors. A few seconds later, the door to the dining room opened and an exasperated nurse showed Harry and Ruth inside.

"Here he is," the nurse declared. "People to see you, Mister North."

The nurse ducked out of the room, shooting Harry a disapproving look as she went. He didn't notice, however. He and Ruth paused beside one of the other empty tables, looking him up and down. If he had known they were coming, he would have made more of an effort: shaved properly and turned himself out as best he could.

"What on earth are you wearing?" Harry grimaced. "You look like someone's Granddad."

Lucas grinned, suddenly abashed at still being in his Tring issued striped pyjamas and thick dressing gown. They weren't exactly Saville Row. They reached out and shook each other's hands firmly. Ruth, he greeted with a kiss on each cheek before pulling up chairs for them both. The tea in the pot was still warm enough to be drinkable, so Lucas poured them both a cup in clean ones pinched from the next table.

"We've seen your progress reports," Harry said.

"You're making excellent progress, under the circumstances," said Ruth, finishing Harry's sentence.

The Counsellor had told him as much as the same. They were working through everything together: from Dakar to Russia and the distance between. Little by little, he was expunging himself of every lie and every bruise of the past. It was like poison being slowly siphoned from his bloodstream. After each session, he felt himself growing that little bit stronger, recovering himself that little bit more after every breakdown.

"You're essential to me, Lucas," Harry said, turning serious. "We need you back on the Grid."

Lucas looked up at him in surprise. Rare were the occasions when Harry praised his team, nature didn't make him like that. But he was expecting to be thrown over and, on the contrary, he had been made to fee needed for the first time in over a month. It gave him something real to aim for.

"But not right away," Ruth keenly cut in. "Take your time."

"He knows what I mean!" Harry retorted. "Don't you, Lucas?"

He smiled and nodded. He understood he was being thrown a lifeline when he least expected one, and he intended to seize it with both hands. Even when the time came for him to return to work, it had already been arranged for him to have weekly appointments with one of their specialised therapists, based in London. He will never be without support again.

"Thank you Harry," he said, giving Ruth a nod as well.

"And you have until May 20th," said Harry.

That date was over six months away. Despite the bleakness of his frame of mind, Lucas was fairly certain he could patch himself up before then. He wondered about the date, however and the answer became apparent by the twinkle in Harry's eye.

"The wedding?" he asked, grinning.

Ruth dropped her voice as she whispered urgently to Harry: "I'm sure Lucas doesn't want to talk about that, now."

She didn't say Ros' name; she didn't need to. But, all Lucas could think was that he needed some bloody good news, no matter what. Seeing as he probably hadn't won the Euro Millions, someone else's wedding would do just fine. "You can decommission me if I'm not there," he offered as surety.

"Just you see that I don't," Harry joked, giving Lucas' shoulder a gently slap. "Everything will be smoothed over. Take your time; get better and we'll see you back on the Grid."

With that, they headed outside into the cold late morning for a walk around the gardens. Nothing was quite as it should have been, but then it never was. If ever it was, they would all be decommissioned. But the process of 'smoothing over' would suffice, for now. But, even as Lucas wrapped himself up in his dressing gown before heading outside, his mind drifted over to Ros and what she might be doing at that moment in time. The thought of her still brought a stab of pain, the bitter after-taste of another failed relationship. But he knew that they would heal; both he and Ros, in their own separate ways. They always did.

**The End**

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**Thank you again to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. I hope you enjoyed it; I certainly enjoyed writing it. Thank you. **


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